The Wife
by effulgentcolors
Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn't make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don't even know how hurt they are?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I'm really excited about this and I want you to have a great experience with me so a couple of things:

1) this is a period piece of sorts in style but I want to be free to make my own rules so don't expect any historical accuracy.

2) this is very much a CS story and will only become more so but it also has a dose of Knight Rook in it. The Killian Jones here is a nice mix of Hook and Wish!Hook so if that's your thing - enjoy, if not - no hard feelings.

3) Neal, Regina and Gothel are the assholes they are.

4) age difference between CS is at about 13 years in case that's a deal breaker for anyone. This story will require some trigger warnings later on though nothing graphic - revealing them will be a bit spoilery so if you wish to be warned in advance, drop me a message and I'll give you the gist of anything triggery coming.

5) Enjoy! :*

* * *

"This is unacceptable!"

Emma's shoulders move up and down lightly – lace rustling for a second and then settling back into the serene stillness with which she entered and intends to depart the Nolan residence – not a very lady-like gesture but she supposes – now that she is safely engaged – she needn't worry quite so much about her every small movement and expression.

"I shall go and talk to her first thing tomorrow."

She looks up into Mary Margaret Nolan's fierce eyes – narrowed and flashing like the tips of cocked arrows under her furrowed dark brows. Mary Margaret who never takes anything lying down. Mary Margaret who is the picture of grace and good breeding but the paint for said picture is all potent determination.

Emma slowly cocks her head to the side and marvels at the glow of Mary Margaret. It is not simply the glow of a woman early in her much wanted pregnancy, it is that of a woman who, despite everything she has had to face, seems miraculously, almost magically, protected from disaster. They have both had their fair share of troubles and tribulations but Mary has come out rightfully victorious every time.

Emma, on the other hand, feels like each storm has chipped away a little more of her – dousing her fire bit by painful bit until there is something embarrassingly grey and listless about her now.

"There is no need."

"Emma—"

"You know what she will say. She knows best. She always knows best."

"Regina may know _a lot_, it does not signify that she knows _best_."

"Well, then let us hope that she knows well enough."

She can literally see the anguish on Mary's face. It pains her. It is not the situation that is causing her friend so much heartache but Emma's acceptance of it. But while anguish sits prettily on a face as exquisite as Mrs Nolan's, it is not made to sit there long.

"I believe my cook might know his, I will—"

"Mary, no."

"But—"

"No. Please. I will not _spy_ on my husband."

"He is not your husband yet," Mary declares almost haughtily with that same stubbornness that drew Emma to her years ago.

"He will be."

Her friend huffs and glares and Emma's lips tick up at having so quickly demolished Mary's composure.

"Besides, it is not spying, it is investigating."

The smile drops and Emma gives her a droll look. Mary waves her hands around as if she is already collecting gossip from the streets and houses of Storybrooke.

"Just because all the gossip is bad doesn't mean much. I mean—" she falters. "It is monstrous of Regina to put you in that position no matter— but, well, who knows how much of it is true."

"Oh, I'm sure some isn't and plenty is," Emma waves her own hand in a dismissive gesture. "I will soon find out for myself and until then I do not intend to care for it. Frankly, I don't intend to care much afterwards either."

Mary knows her well enough to recognize the truth in her statement. She is not deterred in the least.

"I should put his name to Tink."

Emma's eyes widen and narrow in quick succession despite herself. Now, she does not know this Captain Killian Jones that she is to marry in a week. She certainly does not care for him. And yet, even she cannot deny the pinprick of irritation at the association of her future husband with Madame Superior and her "fairies". Even though it is probably a justified one.

"Oh, I did not mean…" Mary's porcelain skin is only more becoming with a light rose tinge to it. "I just meant as a source of information. You know her… her girls know all."

"And I will tell you again that I do not wish you to spend time and effort and money acquiring information that I will soon be privy to myself."

"But don't you wish to be prepared, Emma?"

"I am. Life has made sure of it."

There is little Killian Jones can do that will shock Emma.

"I must go, Mary."

"Of course. But know that I still very much intend to speak to your grandmother tomorrow."

"Please don't. It will only sour her mood and make matters worse."

Emma admires the way Mary Margaret can appear shocked each time she encounters Regina Mill's wide known animosity for her.

/

"This is all that evil old viper's doing."

"Well, she couldn't have rightly forced him into it."

"Like hell she couldn't."

Ruby observes her grandmother's thunderous profile for a few seconds before she returns her attention to the stove, shaking her head. There is probably a person strong headed enough to change Mrs Lucas's opinion after it has been formed. Ruby just doesn't know them.

"Would it be quite so bad?" she wonders to herself.

Years she has worked the kitchen beside the old woman, years she has tried to sneak boys and girls past her and sometimes she still forgets how scarily good her hearing is. Marvelous for gossip, horrible for muttering to yourself.

_Or sneaking around for that matter._

"Of course it would be! Christ, girl! You were not so young as to have forgotten the last one."

"Who says she has to be like the last one?"

"She hasn't even met him – what ya think she is marrying him for?"

"Perhaps—"

"It don't matter what she is like anyway. The missus left a mark deep enough to last him for the next three, if he wished to have them. Which he doesn't. Heaven knows why he decided to buckle under Regina Mills now."

"She is quite pretty. A bit wan and cold but—"

"I've seen her pretty. Girl looks like she will be blown off by the first gust of autumn. Infirm. Fragile. Mark my words, Ruby, this Miss Emma is exactly the kind of wife that man doesn't need. And, God help us, everyone will know it at the first sign of trouble."

/

Emma rubs her finger over the blue stone, marveling at the transparent smudges left behind. She lays the earring beside its twin in her modest jewelry box.

"You can leave these with Zelena."

She turns around to see her grandmother enter her room without ceremony. Privacy is not a thing Emma is used to – especially not in the last ten years, but it doesn't stop the tingle of annoyance that travels down to her fingertips at the intrusion.

"The jewels. A married woman should expect to receive those from her husband, not her overindulgent grandmother."

Emma swallows the scoff that wants to bubble out and wills away any sentimental attachment she might have felt for the jewels in the box. She was told some were her mother's but she feels no compulsion to fight Regina over the belongings of a woman she never knew.

"Of course," she slams the lid of the wooden box and ignores the displeased look Regina sends her way. "Anything else you wish me to leave behind?"

"Why, I expect you to leave all."

She whirls around – eyes wide and disbelieving despite her desire to remain cool and collected in her grandmother's presence. The cruel twist to Regina's mouth – all wrinkles and spite, shows that her slip has been noticed and greatly appreciated. Emma curses in her mind and curls her hands into fists before she opens her mouth.

"All? You expect me to depart with nothing but the clothes on my back?"

"Your wedding gown should be arriving any day now so you won't be needing those either."

"My skirts will be a tad short for Zelena," Emma spits out, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"And a fair bit tight at the bosom but I'm sure she will alter them accordingly."

She would laugh, if she wasn't so keenly aware of the humiliation of it all. Regina settles herself on the lone chair in the room with the regality that Emma has hated as long as she can remember.

"I suppose I should thank you for providing me with what comforts you did, while you saw fit," Emma says sarcastically as she looks around the small and bare room, trying to regain the higher ground.

"You should," Regina replies as if scorn and sarcasm were none-existent unless they were coming from her own painted lips. "And you should thank me for arranging it so that you will continue on with a roof over your head now that I am unable to carry the burden of you any longer."

Emma looks at the grey clouds gathering outside her window and rubs her hands over her arms. To the world beyond that pane of glass her marriage to Captain Killian Jones is mostly a simple case of "widower takes on a young bride".

At 27, Emma isn't all that young but she is sufficient for Captain Jones's 40 years of age. His inferior birth is compensated for by his adequate fortune, his disability by his label of a war hero, his cold manner and abstinence from society by the liberties he allowed his late wife. It has all been presented to Emma very matter-of-factly and, on the whole, the deal is perceived in his favour rather than hers. Some – like Mary Margaret – might even frown and shake their heads at Regina's sacrificing her to a little known man of reported ill-temper and little value and virtue.

Emma expects to find no peace or comfort in her new home and yet, she feels genuine pity for the way the world has dissected Killian Jones and laid him on the cold slab even for his own future wife to observe and judge, if she so pleases. She doesn't have much to thank Regina for but how little the world truly knows about her is genuinely among the few favours her grandmother has granted her.

Of course, it has been a favour to Regina herself but Emma is all too willing to benefit as well. Society – and the man himself – doesn't know what Killian Jones is buying. Emma does. She looks Regina in the eye and marvels at how alive the old woman's face is – with a vicious energy to trample and ascend but with an energy none the less. She wonders how washed out her own complexion must look in comparison.

"Thank you," she says without scorn or sarcasm.

Regina's lips twitch again.

"Of course I cannot do everything for you," she says smoothly and Emma stiffens.

Stripping her of all her worldly possessions was just a precursor – the groundwork for the true blow Regina has come to deliver, and, even though she can conceive of little she fears anymore, Emma feels her heart double its efforts anxiously.

"I wanted you to know that Captain Jones is not aware of certain… limitations of yours."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I imagine it would make a fine topic for your wedding night."

"Regina, no. You cannot— He must know before. He—"

"He knows enough," her grandmother grits out. "He knows what will immediately concern him and you."

"Knows…," Emma shakes her head helplessly. "I cannot just—"

"You can do as you please after you have said your vows."

"You should have told him."

"But of course! Because you are not a hard enough sell as it is."

Emma's mouth shuts audibly.

"He barely sees his own daughter," Regina says dismissively as she gets to her feet. "You might have no trouble at all."

/

"Granny is happy," Alice whispers sarcastically in her ear before she links her arm through Ruby's and tugs her away from the dirty plates.

Another servant might have a token protest for her. Ruby does not. Ruby has missed the nervous energy and youthful glow of Alice Jones.

"When isn't she? My grandmother, the resident termagant."

She has missed her laugh as well – loud and addictive as always.

"I know I should be all questions and confusion but I'm just too happy to be back," Alice almost yells out the last part and lets go of Ruby to turn in a circle with her arms spread wide.

Ruby shakes her head fondly. She is glad as well, though she knows it cannot last, knows that – much as she loves her father – it won't be long before Alice starts feeling homesick and heartsick. She steers them back toward the abandoned picnic.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he is getting married just to have you back for a bit."

Alice's smile turns a bit wistful and she shrugs, smoothing her hopelessly wrinkled skirts.

"I was here just this spring."

"That was more than three months ago!"

"Well, I'm certain it would've cost papa less to take us all for a vacation in Europe than to marry some fabulous lady."

"She is not all that. Her grandmother was – still likes to think she is, I hear – but this Miss Emma isn't overly fond of society apparently. Granny says all the worse, she probably thinks herself too good for it but…"

"You think not?" the tentative hope in Alice's voice mirrors the one in her own heart.

"I hope not."

Alice drops on the picnic blanket and looks up for the source of the bird song above, her brows furrowed in thought. Ruby has learnt that one can never tell if she is pondering the mysteries of existence or daydreaming about the pudding this evening.

"Why wouldn't he find someone who really—"

Ruby feels her heart crumble along with Alice's face but tries to plaster a smile on her own.

"He has you."

"No, he doesn't," the girl sighs dejectedly and Ruby hopelessly searches for a distraction, a way to—

"Miss Lucas, call for doctor Hopper, please!"

Both girls whirl around to see Killian Jones coming toward them with quick strides, the line between his brows as deep as when he pours over his papers. His hat and cravat are absent and the sun glints off the silver streaks in his hair and unkempt beard. They _have to_ talk him into shaving that for the wedding.

"What's the matter?" Ruby exclaims as Alice scrambles to her feet.

"My daughter," Jones gestures at the girl in question with a concerned expression. "She has been here a full day now and has yet to get on the new horse I have procured for her."

Ruby huffs and plants her hands on her hips while Alice unashamedly rolls her eyes at her father.

"I thought we were waiting for the lady of the house."

Killian drops his faux concern and frowns with true feeling before levelling his girl with a firm look.

"_You_ are the lady of the house and shall wait on no one."

Alice's blush is fierce and the way she fiddles with her long arms more befitting an eight-year-old than a young woman of nineteen. Ruby angles her head away so her grin isn't terribly obvious.

"Come," Killian extends his right hand to his daughter and she takes it eagerly. "Let us see if I have finally managed to find a beast that you can't drive to exhaustion in an afternoon."

/

"Hmm, it's quite nice."

Emma smiles a little at her friend's reluctant tone. The dress is beautiful, if a bit too ostentatious for Emma's taste. Not that Emma has ever been given the chance to really find out what her own taste is like. She supposes she never will now. But if garments like this are what she has to content herself with, Emma thinks she hardly has a right to complain.

"So… would you like to hear it?"

"Hear what?" she looks at Mary over her shoulder as she carefully lays her wedding dress aside.

It's not the dress that has made an impression on Emma but rather the note that accompanied it. She was expecting the former but the latter was a surprise. The fact that it made her smile even more so.

But it doesn't feel quite right to show that to Mary Margaret. She knows most women – especially married women, especially when it concerns their husbands – have few secrets from their closest confidants but Emma has always been good at keeping secrets. Even from Mrs Nolan.

"What Tink had to say."

"Mary, you didn't! I explicitly told you—"

"I didn't ask her about _that_. Well, I mean…"

Emma sighs, any impulse to confide in her friend now gone.

"Go on then," she says tiredly as she sits on the edge of her bed across from Mary.

"Well… Tink said the late Mrs Jones used to come around to Madame Superior's every month or so…"

Emma sighs again and looks at the white lace that awaits her. There is only one reason wives go to Madame Superior's – to look for their husbands. What is more, they only do so when things are so bad that they do not care who knows they are there looking for their husbands.

"Yet she assured me she has never seen Captain Jones there."

"What?"

"I know. I didn't understand it either but Tink was adamant. She asked around. No one has."

Why on earth would the wife be there, if the husband was not?

"Was she…" Emma purses her lips, unwilling to finish her thought in Mary Margaret's presence.

"Hmmm? Oh!" her friend's eyes widen almost comically. "Oh, no, no! Nothing like that. It seemed exactly like any other case – desperate wife looking for her wayward husband but… apparently she didn't have any luck there."

Emma frowns deeply, her thoughts starting to run away from her before she waves them off like pesky flies. This is exactly what she wished to avoid.

"Well, I hate to say it but with this information – I hardly think you got your money's worth, Mary."

"Tink wanted to avoid my thinking exactly that," she replies with a glimmer in her eye that immediately makes Emma suspicious. "So she told me something else. Nothing terribly secret I'm sure just… ancient history as they say. That few people seem to know or remember today."

Emma waits for a beat or two before she realizes that Mary desires to be prompted into revealing the intelligence she has bought. Frankly, she does not care for it, but the last thing she wants is to disappoint her friend.

"Go on then."

"Well, it appears that Mrs Jones wasn't _supposed _to be Mrs Jones at all."

Emma frowns and feels herself lean slightly forward despite her best intensions. The silence stretches again.

"Are the dramatic pauses truly necessary?"

Mary has the decency to blush.

"Yes, I— Alright, sorry. Apparently, Captain Jones – coming back from the war a hero and all, got engaged to some famous beauty, a Milah something or other. But then, less than a month before the wedding, he called off the whole thing. And not a week later he was married to this Eloise Gardner. And— and a telling number of months _later _came the baby."

"Oh," Emma looks down at her hands in her lap. She hears Mary stand up and come to sit beside her but she doesn't lift her eyes until her friend's own delicate hands move to clasp her cold ones.

"Emma, don't you see? This is wonderful!"

"Wonderful?"

"Of course. When we tell Regina, she will have no choice but to call off—"

"No."

"I— I beg your pardon?"

"We're not telling my grandmother or anyone else. She probably knows anyway. As you just said, this does not sound like a secret. Just gossip too old to matter."

And like Killian Jones at least attempted to fix the mess he'd made.

"Too old to ma— Emma, this _sounds like_ he was engaged to one woman and—"

"Yes, I can do the calculations, Mary."

"And you do not care?"

"It does not matter, if I care or not."

"How can—"

"Please, I— I need to prepare for tomorrow."

Mary sits frozen for a long moment until Emma's hard look seems to prompt her into action. She is at the door already before she looks back once more.

"When everyone is trying to do wrong by you, Emma, there is no need for you to join them."

She sits for a few moments, staring at the door long after it has closed behind Mary Margaret's back. Then her eyes flit over the white lace again and land on the note that had come with it. She leans to the side and reaches over, her fingers snagging the paper's edge.

_Dear Miss Emma,_

_Your grandmother has provided your measurements and insisted that you need not be consulted about the dress that you shall be married in. It seems a queer custom to me but I should not meddle in your affairs, nor fault you if you have no particular interest in either dress or ceremony. _

_Unfortunately, I am rather ignorant of the current fashions for young ladies and was thus forced to seek help. I believe my daughter's tastes often run towards the unusual and somewhat extravagant but I did emphatically ask her to be as sensible as possible._

_I sincerely hope the garment chosen is to your satisfaction. But were it not, please, do not hesitate to return it – I have been assured that the seamstress has many more to offer._

_Sincerely,_

_Killian Jones_

She taps her finger over the name. By tomorrow night she will be Emma Jones. The fact has brought her neither joy, nor pain since Regina presented it to her. It has hardly ignited her curiosity, even after Mary Margaret's insistence on scrutinizing Captain Jones. This was always one of the possible outcomes for her – frankly, one of the better ones. She has been prepared.

But it is only now, with this note in her hand, that she feels almost calm.

It appears Killian Jones is simply human after all. She will do well to remember that most humans have shown her little kindness but she still feels better now that her future husband is not just some abstract and malignant force for her to face blindly.

/

"I do not have any."

Ruby frowns at the woman before her. She looks so out of place – her white dress and pale face making her appear like a snowflake among the sunshine and purple flowers around them.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am. Should we expect your luggage after the ceremony?"

"No, I— I'm not bringing anything. I have nothing to bring."

Ruby opens her mouth to rephrase her question yet again but then she notes the way Miss Emma draws a carefully measured breath and tries to keep her back straight, her green eyes everywhere but on Ruby, her posture stiff, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso.

_She is embarrassed._

"That's... I see. Do you need anything at present, ma'am?"

The bride shakes her head but still refuses to look at her and Ruby can't help but take the opportunity to make her escape.

_And now what?_

She has to tell someone or the lady of the house will be coming down to breakfast tomorrow in her wedding dress like some crazy, gothic horror bride. Granny is out of the question – she already hates her, learning that the woman's dowry is nothing but the good weather they've been blessed with will certainly only make matters worse. The other servants will be of no help. The grandmother is probably well aware of the situation, if she is not its very maker.

It's either Killian or Alice. And fate has obviously decided that it shall be both when she spots them as soon as she walks through the French doors.

"Your bride must be a real treasure, Captain Jones, seeing as she comes with none," Ruby starts brusquely and less kindly than she intended.

Killian blinks at her in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The mistress has come with literally nothing but the dress on her back."

"I do not understand," Killian huffs and pulls on the cuffs of his left sleeve, fidgeting the way he has been every time someone mentioned his future wife. "What is the issue? I assured Regina she will be provided with all that she needs."

"Splendid," Ruby claps her hands together. "Shall I take her shopping right now or in two hours after you are quite finished with the ceremony?"

"I am sure tomorrow will be agreeable, Ruby."

"And should I take her shopping in her wedding dress?"

Killian blinks at her a couple of times before he seems to grasp the full extent of the situation. Something dark and thunderous passes over his face and Ruby almost regrets telling him. The woman seemed embarrassed enough as it was, Ruby did not wish to get her into even more trouble.

But the cloud passes as quickly as it appeared and now Killian's expression is one she is much more familiar with – cool and businesslike.

"I can give her a few things," Alice chimes in before her father can open his mouth.

"Sweetheart—"

"No, truly, it's no bother. The measurements for the wedding dress were similar enough. Similar enough for a nightgown and a dress to wear for a day."

Ruby is already rocking on her heels, ready to go, as Killian mulls the suggestion over. His sigh is resignation and fondness all at once.

"Very well. Put some sleeping garments and a couple of Alice's dresses in her room and take her to the shops first thing tomorrow, understood?"

/

She is going to tell him before they get to that alter. That's the single thought that Emma repeated to herself like a mantra on the ride to her future home. And now that they are here her determination is cold and heavy as lead where it sits in her stomach and Regina's fingers are like claws where they clamp onto her arm.

"Now you listen to me. If you walk out of this place an unmarried woman – you are walking out on the street."

Her breath is nauseatingly sweet but her threat is thankfully sharp and short as usual. In the next second Regina is making her way across the garden as if she owns every blade of grass and flower bloom and Emma heads inside the house to put as much distance between them as possible.

The sun is shining brightly for "her special day" and it takes her eyes a few seconds to blink away the white spots and adjust to the dimness inside. She lets them take in the home that she will soon bind herself to because simply stepping in has made it painfully clear to Emma that she is a coward and will not be seeking out her betrothed for an audience before the ceremony. She knows Regina makes no idle threats.

It is a moderately sized house and she is glad for it – a little bigger and it would've felt daunting, a little smaller and she would've felt trapped. The Jones's home is well-kept even if it doesn't look particularly lived in. The light seems to enter muted and subdued and aside from the powder white curtains, most of the interior is dark and somehow severe. She encounters at least half a dozen moaning floorboards on her walk around the ground floor. With all the guests out in the garden, the only other sound is her soft gasp when she peaks into the library.

Now, Emma isn't inordinately fond of books but she is completely enamored with libraries – with the quietness and _safety _of them. A library in a house is little less than the eye in the middle of the storm, far as she is concerned. Unfortunately, it looks like it is also the room that sees the most of the family, if all the scattered books, writing implements and glasses left to ring the wooden surfaces are anything to go buy. She hums when she spots all the nautical touches – Killian Jones is a naval man on more than just paper.

But Emma does not care about furniture or decorations, about how light or dark the house is, she does not even care that the library probably won't become her sanctuary. All she cares about is that unlike Regina's imposing residence, there is scarcely any stone or marble to be seen, most of everything is made of dark, polished wood, covered in thick carpets and filled with deep settees. All she cares about is that it's not freezing cold.

The first rumor about Killian Jones that falls apart in front of her eyes is that he does not care much for his daughter. Emma stands just behind the door through which she is supposed to enter the garden and watches Alice Jones adjust her father's cravat. She never knew her own parents but if she had, the way Captain Jones is looking at his daughter is the way she would've dreamt of them looking at her at least once.

Soon – too soon – admiral Liam Jones strides toward them like he is about to gather his fleet and send them into battle. She knows he is slightly older than his brother but one would never be able to tell by looking at them. Liam Jones's greying strands are just a soft accent in his lighter hair, he is clean-shaven and filling out his jacket just right. He stands tall and confident and seemingly ready for anything.

As he ushers his brother and niece toward the plain arch where the small ceremony will take place, Emma knows someone will soon come to collect her as well so she takes a shaky breath and prays it's not Regina.

She gets her first proper look at Killian Jones when she comes to stand across from him at the altar and Killian Jones looks every bit his age and then some. She finds him much more handsome than his brother and infinitely sadder. His own broad shoulders exude exhaustion and the lines on his face speak of more agitation than laughter. His eyes are the bluest she has ever seen and for a moment Emma is afraid they will chill her even more. But Killian's eyes are warm, if tired, impossibly deep, if carefully guarded. His voice sounds like a smoking room and the grey in his dark hair stands out like a shock to the body after a stiff drink. She supposes a lady should not know how that feels. Killian looks like he knows how that feels. He looks like he would like to be reminded right this second, in the middle of their proclamations to "love and cherish".

Despite the bright sun and the soft breeze, Emma feels cold the way she always does. It could be her imagination or it could be that her fingernails are really tinged blue. When they are pronounced husband and wife, Killian's lips feel scorching hot at the corner of her mouth. It is the briefest of touches and she feels the seed of gratitude within her as he pulls away.

Then she thinks what a ridiculous pair they make – a frigid cold bride and an already exhausted groom. This will go marvelously.


	2. Chapter 2

She puts some of the cream on the very tip of her finger and contemplates it as if it might hold all the answers to her future.

"Congratulations."

Emma tenses in her seat but manages to retain her composure enough to not jump out of it or, worse still, let out the curse that hits the back of her teeth. She forces her mouth up into what she hopes might partially resemble a smile and turns to her right.

The lady now sat next to her is what Emma supposes she might have become with the proper tutoring and an otherworldly seamstress. Her blonde hair is lighter than Emma's and pulled up into one of the most fashionable styles of the day and her blue dress is the most flattering piece of clothing Emma has seen on a woman. Her smile is genuine but not overly warm.

"I'm Mrs Jones. The _other_ Mrs Jones. Elsa Jones."

"Oh."

Emma didn't know Liam Jones was married, known as he was for his business talents and immense dedication to the Jones Brothers shipping company, but now that she actually spares it a thought it makes perfect sense that he would be an equally successful family man. It doesn't take much to see that Elsa Jones is nothing if not a success when it comes to choosing a bride.

Killian Jones it seems has fallen short of his brother not only in the navy ranks and business hierarchy but on the marital battleground as well. Emma can see herself from across the garden, sitting beside Elsa Jones, and she supposes it is much the same as hanging a plain white shift on the laundry line beside your wedding night garments.

The thought of wedding nights makes her back stiffen and she focuses her attention on the gems in Elsa's rings as she takes a delicate bite out of her own piece of cake.

"I… didn't really expect all this," Emma gestures at the few tables scattered around the garden and the decorated arch she married Captain Jones under just… an hour ago?

It's not a lavish party by any standard but it is definitely more than Emma imagined their marriage would warrant. She has yet to decide how she feels about this.

"Oh, the cake was simply unavoidable," Elsa says with an almost conspiratorial smile. "Alice has too big of a sweet tooth. And so does her father, I believe, though he will most likely deny it."

Emma blinks and wonders why the idea of a gentleman enjoying sugary treats sounds so outlandish to her. Then again—

"I'm not sure I— Regina has always abhorred sugar."

Elsa glances over her shoulder at her grandmother and leans slightly closer to Emma. Surprisingly, the subtle intimacy of it doesn't put her immediately on edge.

"Yes, I can tell," Elsa whispers.

"Yes, Regina has always been very strict about maintaining her figure."

"Oh, no, I mean that she does look positively bitter."

Emma's eyes widen but she manages to turn her snort into a less undignified cough. Elsa Jones – a perfect lady with a perfectly wicked tongue.

This family appears full of surprises. And the cake is quite delicious.

/

She stands on the second step, her eyes shifting between the floor above and the corridor stretching away below her. The corridor which her husband will walk down any second now to take her up those stairs and to the bedroom they are meant to share for their wedding night and all the nights after.

She is certainly no warmer now, in the gloom of the broad staircase, than she was earlier under the summer sunshine. The coldness is nothing new but the way all her muscles are straining under her skin – as if preparing to propel her out of the nearest door or even an open window – is certainly adding to Emma's almost perpetual discomfort.

It is paramount that she gets a hold of herself. A tranquil state of mind, it is the only thing that can help her now. Detached – she needs to be calm and collected and detached. There is nothing terribly out of the ordinary about the situation she finds herself in and she needs to realize that – the sooner, the better.

"Ready?"

She startles a little and looks down. Jones is standing at the foot of the stairs and looking up at her, illuminated by soft candlelight his eyes look truly bottomless and the circles under them are even deeper. He has a candle in each hand, the left one's little plate carefully balanced on the wooden surface of his prosthetic. Instinct tells her to reach for it but she doesn't wish to overstep some imaginary boundary in their very first minute alone. She is certain he has plenty of experience and can carry more than a couple of candles up the stairs of his home.

Maybe she is wrong or maybe – most likely – he just realizes that she needs something for her fidgeting hands and takes pity on her because he hands her the candle in his right hand before transferring the one on his left into it.

They make it up to the landing before she is certain she has a firm enough grasp on her courage. When she opens her mouth, she takes some pride in how firm her voice is, even if the strain behind it is plain to the ear.

"I believe it has been made known to you that I am not—"

"We can save discussions of what either of us is and isn't for tomorrow."

It's not an order but it is a suggestion that she finds herself willing to accept. His voice is just as deep and husky as it was when they were exchanging marriage vows but it gives off a much different impression in the darkness of the still and quiet house. Emma thinks that's what the voice of a man who has come back from a long and arduous journey must sound like. It is indisputable that she does not know all about being somebody's wife but she knows enough about what men who've come back from a journey might expect to find.

She has always wondered what the difference truly is – physically, for men. Naturally, there was a time when she felt almost enraged at the notion – the conviction, that a woman touched is a woman impure, that she is somehow less.

Emma is less, by that definition. And by a few others. There may have been ways for her to compensate for that but she has not made the effort to learn what they are. She has remained caught in the horrible middle – no longer pure but not yet experienced.

It is the latter that makes her feet feel heavy now as she raises them to the next rung. She does not care about satisfying her husband tonight. She wonders if women ever do. Perhaps when they are truly in love, but then she wonders if that isn't just another notion like purity with no true manifestation in the real lives of real people.

No, she worries for her own self and for that her inexperience is a burden as heavy as her impurity, if not heavier. She has laid with a man but twice. Each time hurried, prolonged not a second longer than it took him to reach completion. For such a pivotal moment in her life, the memory of it is an embarrassing blur but not enough so that she doesn't now recall the discomfort, the fumbling and the pain and then not much of anything but the burn of friction.

That's all she found in a man she had set her eyes on, a man who made love to her with words before she allowed him to do so with his body – both proved nothing like what she expected and even less like what he promised. And that man had been little more than a boy when it came to the strength of character and experience of body he had.

Killian Jones is a man. What is more, he is her husband and he does not have to lull her with pretty promises and coax her into his bed. She is his wife – his bed is where she belongs.

Her thighs tense and Emma curses silently under her breath as she feels the slightest tremble in her legs. She is surprised – almost mortified – to find herself on the verge of tears. Jones is a solid three steps behind her but Emma has already realized that her mind and body are sensing the approach of something that neither has a fond memory of.

She most certainly needs to get a hold of herself.

"Here."

Emma turns back, realizing that she doesn't really know where she is going and why Jones let her lead the way. He turns the knob on a door in deep grey and gestures inside with his candle without actually crossing the threshold.

"This is to be your room."

Her—

"I trust you should have everything you might need immediately. Ruby will take you shopping first thing tomorrow. As soon as you are ready that is."

Her room. Those two words together fail to make sense in the situation that the two of them currently inhabit, no matter how Emma turns them around. Tis two words, there aren't that many different ways she can turn them.

"Alice's room is right across," Jones adds and she realizes he is still standing at the door – her door – illuminating the entrance but not actually entering. "And my own chambers are at the very end."

He nods to himself and finally lets the arm holding his handle settle back at his side, his left is angled slightly behind him as if he is half prepared for a bow. Or hiding something.

"I—"

"If you need anything—" he cuts off with a glance toward the end of the corridor where his room is apparently situated.

Her room. His room.

He nods again.

"Good night."

She watches the wild flame of his candle move down the corridor with him. It's when he is half a dozen paces away, his steps heavy yet barely audible and his form the only solid thing among the shadows, that she remembers he gave her a candle of her own to light her way.

/

Her bedchamber is unnecessarily spacious. It is the first thing that crosses Emma's mind as she lifts her head from the pillow in the late morning. The sun has climbed high enough that the light is winning the battle with the curtains – brightness filtered through slate blue makes the corners of her room much clearer than candlelight did the night before.

Her wedding night which – for reasons yet wrapped in the temporary cobwebs of sleep and the more permanent mystery of Killian Jones – she spent alone under three blankets, all in different shades ranging between blue and green. Most of everything in the room is soft shades of those two colours and little seems ill-chosen or out of place. Just the sight of the fireplace sends tingles of anticipation over her whole body.

Emma curls her toes and buries her nose in the white nightgown she found waiting for her the night before. It smells fruity and sweet like jam and, before she has truly decided to let her emotions reign for a moment, her eyes are already prickling for the second time in only so many hours. This time the feeling is much different.

She is as uncertain of herself and everyone in this house as she was when she first set foot inside it the day before, she is much more perplexed and still a fair bit uncomfortable. But Emma is no longer afraid.

/

"About time."

She has to give credit to the old woman, her words are just quiet enough that she can deny uttering them and just loud enough to make sure Emma hears her and all the judgement she can infuse into three syllables.

It is an admirable effort, certainly, but Emma grew up in a house with Regina Mills and her lady's maid Zelena, her experience with judgement is on a level that, she is confident, is rarely achieved in the Jones household.

And she rather deserves the cook's evil eye. After sleeping in a bed fit for a princess, she is tumbling down the stairs for breakfast at an hour befitting one. Her dress – Alice's, if she has to make an uneducated guess – barely brushing her ankles and hanging a little off her shoulders, completes the picture of the careless and carefree lady who is not the least bothered with custom or court.

The image couldn't be further from the subject. Emma has never been particular about observing the etiquette in every minute of her daily life but she certainly wished to make an effort and a hopefully less than disastrous impression on her first day as Mrs Emma Jones.

As it is, she rushes in to find Captain Jones in a corner of the breakfast table, plates and even his cup of tea obviously abandoned long ago as most of the space in front and around him is taken by papers and what looks like numerous logbooks.

"Good morning."

He glances at her for such a brief moment that Emma is unsure whether she imagined the look or not.

"Morning."

The cook – gods, she needs to ask the younger maid about her name, she knew yesterday that she will never remember it right away – comes in to pointedly pick up some empty plates and Emma decides to give her apologies and extend an olive branch in one swoop.

"My apologies, I— Well, I didn't realize how late it was."

"Did you have some sort of engagement in the morning?"

Emma furrows her brow in confusion. Jones's eyes continue to follow the ink that shapes words and numbers under his skilled guidance.

"No. I… did not."

"Then there was no need for you to be up any earlier and, thus, you are not late," his blue eyes finally find hers and Emma is shocked by how different they look yet again, the morning light making them brighter and more vivid. "In addition, it is an impossibility to be "late" for much of anything while my daughter is residing under the same roof."

Emma looks around and realizes that Alice Jones is indeed nowhere to be seen.

"And yourself?"

He blinks at her, plainly and powerfully taken aback.

"I— I wake much too early for you to concern yourself with that."

Before she can puzzle out his surprise and formulate her reply, Killian has turned his attention to the cook.

"Mrs Lucas, a fresh pot and some warm toast, if you would be so kind."

"There was plenty of warm toast an hour ago."

"Indeed. Time has that pesky quality of cooling warm food. Hence, our constant race against it for a piece of hot bread."

Emma watches the exchange with mounting amusement and apprehension. She cannot help but appreciate Killian's quick acquittal and dismissal of her small misstep but she acutely feels the need to not incense Mrs Lucas any further. The look she gives her before leaving the room tells Emma that she has reached new lows in the old woman's eyes in an alarmingly short time.

She swallows her worry and takes a seat at the half of the table still set for breakfast, and focuses on the more benevolent presence in the house.

Days ago – indeed, mere hours ago, Emma would not have considered the possibility of her future husband appearing "benevolent" in her eyes so soon after their vows were exchanged – if he ever did at all. But, looking at Killian now, she is hard at work to find any trace of malice or arrogance about him. It is hard work and work she does not wish to do.

Oh, he is far from approachable. Frankly, sitting at the opposite end of the same table, he might as well be a continent away from her, but even distant as he is, his presence is calming and solid. Solid, flipping through the pages before him and inking the tip of his pen with practiced ease, deep lines of concentration lining his forehead, he looks like he can probably hold most of the world on his slightly hunched shoulders. He looks like he does.

/

"A good morning to all!"

Despite the late hour Alice does not carry that aura of haughty lateness and overindulgence that Emma worried about, she seems to bounce her way into the room much like the occasional sunbeam that refracts in the porcelain cups. There are pheasants on them and Emma has been tracing the tail of one while sneaking glances at the man across from her for the last quarter of an hour.

Alice slides behind her father's chair and gives him a quick peck on the cheek before she circles the table again and sits down a seat away from Emma, smiling at her openly.

"Morning."

Alice's warm toast and fresh tea appear as if by magic without Killian having to so much as give Mrs Lucas a prompting look.

"When should I tell Peter to have the horses ready?"

She looks expectantly at her father and Emma instinctively follows her example. Killian looks up and tilts his head to the side.

"You should tell him to have the carriage ready first. Ruby is taking Emma shopping, I believe."

"Oh, can I go as well? I want to find a new perfume for—"

Emma sees Alice glance at her from the corner of her eye and senses that she might have finished her sentence were it not for her presence. Emma doesn't dwell on it, she has never had an ear for gossip.

"I thought you might wish to," Killian responds to his daughter but looks at Emma and it takes her a long moment to realize the decision is apparently left to her.

"Oh, of course. If you wish to, I could probably use some help."

"It's decided then," Alice claps her hands once and jumps to her feet.

"Finish you breakfast first, darling."

A bread roll is merrily snatched up and carried away as Alice calls out for Ruby and Emma politely pretends not to notice Killian's eyeroll.

"Emma, if you are finished with your breakfast…"

"Oh, yes," she pushes her cup of tea away and raises to her feet, she is not sure she has anything to do while she waits for Alice and Ruby to be ready to leave but she can certainly channel her efforts into pretending to.

"Then perhaps we can have a word in my study?"

Or that.

"Of course."

Her husband gathers some of his papers, leaving a few on the table with his inkwell and pen, and gestures for her to follow him. The further they go, the more the noises of the house seem to fade, the light getting more and more muted. He opens the door to his study for her and inside the silence is complete and the windows give off the impression that it is late afternoon rather than midday.

Emma stands perfectly still. The gloomier room makes goosebumps erupt over her flesh. Jones drops the papers in his hand on his desk and then himself drops into the chair behind it with a certain amount of relief. Her impression is that his prolonged presence at breakfast might have been a rare courtesy, prompted by Alice's presence and Emma's first breakfast as a member of the family.

"Emma, you don't have to stand like a newly minted soldier."

It's probably the first time she has heard a trace of genuine amusement in his voice. She tries to loosen her muscles and sits in one of the chairs in front of his desk, carefully arranging her skirts and crossing her ankles.

"I want you to feel comfortable here."

The knowledge that this is easier said than done sits heavy in her stomach. It has little to do with the house around her or the man before her but Emma is simply not sure she knows how to be comfortable.

"Is your room satisfactory? There are two more bedrooms which you can—"

"The room is lovely."

Jones nods in a way that makes her think he doesn't actually believe in her satisfaction but is content with the pronouncement of it.

"I've instructed Ruby to procure everything that you are unlikely to feel the need to choose personally but you can of course review the list with her. Feel free to purchase any clothes, handkerchiefs, perfumes, make-up and— whatever it is you might need or want today. Just leave my name and I will settle the bills tomorrow. What else?"

Killian seems to wrack his brain for any other necessities while Emma wonders at the trust of it all. Abusing his generosity is the furthest thing from her mind but she can't help but notice that it would be very easy to do so, if one desired it.

"Jewelry, of course. I apologize for the pieces I sent with your dress. If I can be quite frank, jewels completely slipped my mind and under the press of time I resorted to what was available here."

Sitting across from this man, Emma has to wonder that Liam Jones is supposedly the businessman of the family. The tone of his speech is exactly what she assumes befits a business deal, even if the content of it seems to be arranged much in her favour rather than his. Perhaps that is the key to it – Killian Jones doesn't appear selfish enough to be a good businessman.

"Umm, K-Killian," his name sounds rather monumental on her tongue but she takes some small measure of satisfaction and reassurance from the way it startles him as well – the business façade slipping slightly – she supposes his work associates do not address him by his given name but, even if she feels like one right now, calling her husband "Captain Jones" is one thing she is not willing to submit to. "The jewels were quite lovely and I do not… I really do not require any more at present."

The jewelry actually fit her personal tastes better than the dress. The pieces are simple but elegant, just a bracelet and a pair of earrings. The bracelet especially she has fallen quite in love with – the little five-petal flowers inlaid with golden gemstones.

"Did they… belong to your wife?"

She regrets the question immediately. Killian's shoulders stiffen perceptibly and he turns slightly away, any openness in his expression gone.

"No. All my late wife's belongings were promptly sold."

It's a cold statement but his voice is even colder, as if taking responsibility for the words and aiming to make them even harsher.

"They were my mother's."

Her eyes jump back to his half-turned face with unmitigated surprise. The shot of guilt follows soon after.

"I will return them as—"

"There is no need for that. You are my wife. Who else should be in possession of my mother's jewels."

Alice, Elsa and a row of anonymous ladies in impeccable gowns measured just for them who would've made much better wives to Killian Jones parade before her eyes in the space of a single heartbeat. She manages to stop herself before she asks if the previous Mrs Jones were allowed the same familial privilege.

Killian clears his throat and turns to face her fully again. The businessman back in control.

"Ruby can show you all around the house whenever you ask. You can choose an apartment for yourself and any guests you might wish to have. Of course, you can come and go as you please."

Emma blinks in surprise, she does not believe such a statement is usually proceeded by "of course" or made at all.

"If you wish me to attend any dance or dinner party with you, I request a day's notice and if you wish to host any such, I'd like you to notify me a week or so before as well."

The seconds tick by, Killian's eyes have shifted to the world outside the window and Emma realizes his listing of her liberties has come to an end.

"And what is expected of me?"

Before stepping into this room she could not have envisioned asking this question so bluntly but, short as it has been, the time she has spent in Killian's presence leads her to believe that directness and honesty might serve her best. She prays to a god she secretly doesn't believe in that she is not wrong.

Killian's eyes turn to her more shadowed and somewhat confused. He doesn't seem to have a ready answer for her and she finds it extremely strange that he has not asked himself that question already.

"If there is anything— If there is an issue, I'd ask you to come directly to me with it."

Who else would she go to? Already – perhaps naively but instinctively, she will rather come to him than run back to her grandmother. Emma wonders if Jones underestimates how alone she is and has always been.

When he lapses into silence again and steals a glance at the frankly frightening pile of papers on his desk, Emma figures she will have to navigate wifely duties on her own until a time when he decides to define those for her. She nods, raises from her chair and, after a slight hesitation, heads for the door.

"Oh, and Emma? Please, do remind Alice that she _will_ have to fit whatever she purchases in her travel bags when she leaves."

Her curiosity might have prompted her to ask about times when Alice forgot that essential detail on a shopping trip and the results thereof but, as it is, his mention of his daughter has a much different effect on her. She turns around and gathers her strength – it's there, she knows, she hopes, she hasn't called on it in a long time, has let it rest after all that she put it through but it's there and—

And Killian Jones is smiling. It's small and private and likely directed at his daughter's imprudence rather than anything else but… her strength fails her.

"I'll make sure she keeps that in mind."

She tries to form a smile of her own but that fails as well.

/

"Don't put the kettle on yet, I think they're off to show Emma the horses."

Granny makes a displeased sound in the back of her throat and Ruby can't help herself.

"She isn't all that bad, you know."

"You buy a dozen dresses together and now you're thick as thieves?"

"It certainly wasn't a dozen. She is quite modest and made very sensible choices."

"I ain't giving her credit for that. Making sensible choices is what women do."

"All I'm saying, she isn't spoilt or anything, doesn't seem used to nice things and… I think she feels guilty for coming here with nothing."

"As she should."

"You know it couldn't've been her choice."

But her grandmother just shakes her head and kneads the dough in her hands harder, her sleeves pushed up as far as they will go. Ruby has never seen her sleeves slip down her arms – even they know not to get on the wrong side of Granny Lucas. They're smarter than she is apparently.

"She likes him, you know."

"And why wouldn't she?"

Ruby barely refrains from rolling her eyes. Granny would sooner admit that her shortbread were inedible than that Killian Jones had a flaw.

"And how would you know anyways? Are you her lady's maid now?"

Ruby huffs and blows an escaped lock of hair out of her eyes. There is nothing to do in the kitchen until the family comes in for tea and she feels restless whenever there is nothing to do.

"She kept asking me questions about him."

"What questions?" the dough hits the wood hard and in the next moment her grandmother's eyes are fixed firmly on her, something almost primitively protective sparkling behind her glasses.

"Oh, good Lord! When would be the most opportune time to slip him some poison? What questions. I don't know. What kind of tea he likes, if he always gets up early in the morning – innocent questions!"

Granny scrutinizes her carefully before she grunts in reluctant acceptance and turns back to her task.

"You tell that girl nothing. She wants to know so much she can earn the knowledge."

"Well, I don't think it's fair of you to take it out on her."

"Many a thing in this life that ain't fair, Ruby. When she proves herself to me, you can be sure I'll do my damnest to protect her from that unfairness as well."

/

She is laboring under no illusion that Jones hasn't noticed the reluctant way she is shuffling after him. The absence of her enthusiasm is thrown into even sharper relief against Alice's vibrant excitement. The girl is quite a few paces ahead of them and Emma is not convinced her feet have touched the ground at all since they set out toward the small stables.

It's the part of the Jones residence that Emma hoped to avoid as long as possible. Alas, after all the time Alice spent with her yesterday – picking fabrics and ribbons, sniffing perfume bottles and trying to determine the right style of hat that befits Emma – a thankless task in Emma's opinion – when Alice started prodding her father to get the horses saddled again today, Emma felt compelled to join and indulge her as well.

Now she realizes she might have overestimated herself.

"Are you quite alright?"

She blinks up to find that Killian has fallen back into step with her. He looks concerned and uncomfortable over being so at the same time.

"Oh, yes, I'm perfectly—" the "fine" sticks to the roof of her mouth and no matter how hard she prods it with her tongue, she cannot dislodge it from there. "Not entirely."

She doesn't know if she is more surprised by her own admission or by the fact that they just calmly continue walking forward. Then she thinks perhaps he didn't hear her and she is almost glad for it.

"Is this about a fear of the animals or…"

"No. No, I used to ride. I liked— I loved it, truthfully. But then… I stopped. And now it's been some ten years since I've sat astride a horse."

It's possibly the longest she has gone on talking since she got here and Emma feels both pride and embarrassment.

"Astride?"

Her head whips up to find him looking straight ahead and obviously struggling to suppress a smile. It's only whether he is truly amused or mocking her that is unclear to Emma.

"Well, yes, I used to—"

At this moment, Alice comes toward them astride an elegant, impeccably white horse.

"So does my daughter."

Neither mockery, not amusement, his smile is genuine enjoyment. Alice urges the beautiful animal closer to them, a slightly sheepish smile on her own face.

"Why, you two were taking so long."

"Of course, darling. I have long given up keeping pace with you."

Killian steps a little in front of Emma as he talks and for a moment she thinks he has simply forgotten about her presence. Then he glances back at her and she realizes, despite her insistence that it isn't the horses she is afraid of, he has very purposefully positioned himself between her and the horse. It's the stables that make a cold wave slitter down her spine, not the horses inside, but the gesture helps regardless.

She rests one hand on Killian's shoulder and reaches forward to stroke Alice's horse. The smell and feel of it makes her lips turn up slightly.

"Emma, meet Jolly," she grins proudly down at her.

"She does look rather happy indeed. She, yes?"

"Yes. Papa's is our lonesome gentleman."

"Would you like to meet yours?"

Killian's voice is close and she takes a step back to restore a respectable amount of space between them. Then she takes in his words. Emma has owned few things in her life – or so she thought before Regina showed her that she has very likely never owned a thing – and a horse has certainly never been one of them. She used to ride a lot but that was before, that was a different horse every time and never being quite certain if it will happily let her sneak a ride or throw her to the ground. On the inside, she is terrified and exhilarated in equal measures. On the outside, her nod is almost collected.

But another few steps are all it takes for the chill to come back and for terrified to start winning out.

"Killian."

He turns around, one eyebrow raised in question – expectant but blessedly not impatient.

"Could you… could you bring them out?"

He tilts his head to the side, seemingly confused for a moment and she focuses all of her will power on not saying anything else and making it all even worse. For the life of her, she cannot comprehend how her mind talked her into asking, it's probably the doing of her galloping heart.

But then Killian just nods once and turns around.

She should follow him. She is not a child and she most certainly doesn't need or want to be treated as one. Except she is still frozen outside the stables and she did just ask him to fix it. He can't fix it.

But he does bring the horses out.

His stallion makes her gasp, its black coat quite literally glistening in the afternoon sun, its muscles rippling with undisguised power. If a horse was ever made to be ridden into battle, this one was, and he seems to know it too, looking disdainfully at Killian for the sedated pace that he is being led at by his bridle.

The other horse – hers, she thinks in wonder, appears almost as white as Jolly at first. Emma thinks it the sun is playing off its flanks as well until it stands just a few feet from her, only then does she realize that the golden tint to its coat is its own and not a trick of the light. And Alice's horse is as near perfection as can be, and Killian's is likely the most powerful animal she has seen with her own eyes, but her mare is the one that looks like a painting come to life, like it would belong in a museum, were it not for the energy buzzing around it.

"This is Roger," Killian gives a tug on his horse's bridle and the two seem to engage in a silent battle of wills for a few moments before the horse huffs and finally ceases its obviously impatient pacing. "And this… well, that's for you to decide, I suppose."

"She doesn't have a name?" Emma reaches out to touch the horse like she did Jolly.

"She hasn't had one here."

"How long has she been here?"

"Not that much longer than you. A week or so."

"Something summery then."

It's two days later when Alice brings a bunch of buttercups with her after a ride that she picks one.


	3. Chapter 3

To her utter surprise a week is all it takes for Emma to become more or less attuned to the workings of the Jones household.

Much as she guessed the very first morning, catching Killian Jones in the midst of breaking his fast is near impossible. Every morning, by the time she makes her way down to breakfast, no matter how early she tries to rise, the table is set and waiting but any trace of the master of the house is already gone. Usually, he is just down the corridor in his study but occasionally he is already out of the house, meeting his brother for matters of business, by the time Emma – let alone Alice – takes her first sip of tea.

She notices that he makes a point of always sharing at least one meal with her and his daughter and, more often than even Alice seems to expect, he manages to make time to join them for a ride in the afternoon. Indeed, Emma tries not to let her fancy fly away from her and make her feel more important than she has a right to but she can't help suspecting that it's her own timidity and anxiety about riding that makes him lend his services to them, seeing as Alice is an extraordinarily accomplished rider.

Emma herself is moderately pleased with the progress she has made. In all honestly, she suspects it was more daring and youthful confidence that made her a somewhat decent rider when she was much younger rather than any proper form or natural talent. But, contrary to her own musings, both Killian and Alice assert that she appears to be a natural and, most of all, that she has managed to make Buttercup fall in love with her with merely a few words and touches, whereas Alice proclaims that Jolly will still be much happier dashing away on her own and Killian begrudgingly admits – at Peter's ribbing and his daughter's teasing – that it took months of time spent on his ass in the dirt for him to prove himself worthy of Roger. After a week of almost daily exercise atop her own mare, Emma feels her tailbone tingle with sympathy at the mere thought.

And yet, she has never felt more pleasantly exhausted in her life. The fresh air of the countryside all around them and the emotional and then simply physically taxation of getting back on a horse have taken their toll but she finds herself unwilling to refuse every time Alice appears in front of her with her riding clothes already on.

Perhaps this is the reason she has been unable to awake early enough to catch her husband in his morning routine but it does not serve to explain why she also has yet to see or hear him retire to bed. Aside from that very first night – that she thinks can hardly be named their "wedding night" – she has never seen Killian heading for his bedchambers.

What she _has_ seen is that the library is not as often engaged as she first thought it might be and thus, Emma has already spent many an hour familiarizing herself with its collection and the numerous artefacts from the brothers' travels. And still, late as she burns her candle in that room, she never manages to make it to the point when Jones – presumably – heads to bed himself. Ruby and Mrs Lucas have on a couple of occasions now asked if she needed anything and bid her goodnight before retiring to their rooms but heading to bed after her husband has proven as impossible as rising from it before him.

Finding and securing the company of his daughter is much easier and that when Alice doesn't put some scheme of hers into action first. Emma thinks she might be on her way to unravelling another small mystery, that of Alice's permanent residence away from her home. It takes but a day in the girl's presence to realize that, charming as it might be, Storybrooke is much too small to contain her. Emma is rather puzzled why Alice does not go more into society here but she can perfectly perceive how the city might be calling to her after a few weeks in her family home.

A home which has proven rather favourable to Emma's disposition despite the complete chance introduced into her life. So it is with an almost quiet resignation that Emma gasps awake long before dawn on a summer day a little over a week after her nuptials.

Her heart does its damnest to beat out of her chest and the sweat on her back makes her shiver under all the blankets but she regains control of most of her faculties almost immediately and proceeds to deepen her breathing the way she has learnt will help bring awareness of her surroundings and dissipate the dream faster. Her toes are ice-cold but her need to get up makes the bed resemble hot coals beneath her so she dresses quickly, aware that she will not be going back to sleep until night has arrived anew.

As it is, she is forced to take her candle with her, the sun not even peaking over the horizon yet as she makes her way down the stairs as silently as possible. It is only as she heads for the kitchen – her mind on a glass of warm milk – that she entertains the notion that anyone might already be awake.

"—and this girl now. What is the purpose of this?" Mrs Lucas's voice is gruffer than usual, smudged with sleep and something else Emma cannot place through the door.

"You _could_ be a bit kinder to her," as for Killian's voice, it is crisp and clear – he might as well have been awake for hours.

"And you can tell me why it is that you took her in. Lord knows, you probably haven't told a soul. If any has asked."

It is in that moment that she realizes herself the topic of their conversation. Perhaps, if it was more in her nature or even, if she stopped to truly consider, Emma might have lingered quietly outside a few minutes longer and gleaned some of that much coveted and hard to obtain knowledge of her husband's private thoughts. But the sharp shove she gives the door is almost instinctive and has the immediate effect of silencing everyone on the other side.

She may have brought secrets into this house but she does not wish to accumulate new ones while here.

When she walks in, Mrs Lucas looks for all the world as if Emma has been stumbling into the kitchen at ungodly hours of the morning ever since she got here. Killian's face, however – and Emma has quickly learnt that, for all the coldness and irreproachability that he tries to paint on it, it is a painfully expressive one – is caught somewhere between surprised guilt and uncomfortable suspicion.

But Emma's state is still rumpled enough and her eyes not quite open enough to alarm anyone and make them believe she could have been eavesdropping.

"Well, there is certainly no need to be _this _early," the cook mutters under her breath as she rolls up her sleeve and barely spares Emma a glance.

"Perhaps you should inform Ruby that the sun, as well as us, will be up before her soon enough," Killian suggests in rebuff and Emma tries not to jump out of her way when the old woman stalks past her, grumbling under her breath that they all might as well not go to bed at all anymore.

"There was no need—" she starts but Killian waves his hand in the air before he runs it over his face.

"She has been itching to either have it out with me or get out of this room for some moments now. Your appearance ruled rather in my favour."

Emma nods and clasps her hands in front of her, now questioning her decision to run downstairs from her troubled thoughts. Normally, she uses any opportunity to take a peek at Jones's inner workings but she questions her current ability for casual conversation, let alone something deeper.

"Were you looking for something?"

"Oh, I was just going to get a glass of milk."

Killian snaps his fingers as if he should have guessed her reason for being here, already turning toward the stove and thankfully missing her slight jump at the sharp sound. Watching his back, Emma is frozen with indecision.

Far as her sleep-muddled mind planned, she would've found the kitchen still quiet and empty and made the drink herself. In the event of Ruby or Mrs Lucas being up already, she most certainly would've debated letting them get on with their work and sorting herself out. She did not account for Killian at all and her inexperience with gentlemen of his stature – let alone his manner, which seems rather singular to her – makes her uncertain of how she should proceed.

Certainly it is more befitting for her to take over any tasks in the kitchen rather than him? Yet, she does not feel herself ingrained into the household enough to take any such initiative. So instead she stays where she is and observes with interest the way he moves around the kitchen, operating predominantly with his real hand.

The missing limb seems to impair him extremely rarely when riding and, reading and writing being the other two activities in which she has mainly seen him engaged, Emma has given little thought to what she supposes is a battle wound.

Then he comes to a sudden halt and she straightens along with him, worried that he has somehow sensed, and does not appreciate, her pointed attention.

"Actually… would you like something a bit different?" Killian glances over his shoulder, his manner easy enough that Emma feels her shoulders relax as his lips quirk up the slightest amount. "I believe I already pointed out that a soldier salute is unnecessary."

Emma frowns in confusion, her brain taking a moment to assimilate the words in the morning light that has barely appeared behind the white curtains, and then she shocks them both with a short burst of laughter. It's a quick and slightly hysterical thing but with it she feels the last of her dark dreams disperse and drops almost theatrically in one of the hard kitchen chairs.

"Something different?"

"Mm, are you fond of hot chocolate?"

"I cannot answer that, seeing as I have never tried it."

To his credit, a singular eyebrow expresses Killian's disbelief before he turns back to his preparations.

"As I told your sister-in-law, sugar is one of my grandmother's archenemies."

"Which doesn't say much about sugar at all with how many she must have."

"Mrs Jones was equally witty and condemning. You must all have a frightfully low opinion of my family."

"Rather that singular relation."

"Well—" she opens her mouth to say that, vile as the woman is, she constitutes the whole of Emma's family, before she realizes that is technically no longer the case. "She did say you have a weakness for it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your sister-in-law. She said you also have a weakness for sugar."

"Ah. Well, Elsa always likes to know where one's strengths and weaknesses lie."

"Then surely you must be flattered that is the only one she has found in you."

"I can assure you that is not the case. But I do appreciate her choosing it as the one to expose on my wedding day. Now—"

He turns around with a pot in his hand and two cups, dangling by their handles from his little finger. Emma forces herself to remain seated, her hands in her lap and an expectant expression on her face.

Killian sets the cups down with a clatter and no saucers and starts pouring out a thick, dark liquid that makes her nose twitch with eagerness.

"A few centuries ago they used to stuff it full of spices but, as most good things, it's best in its simplicity," he nudges one cup toward Emma and takes his own, sitting across from her. "Though I will admit to a dash of cinnamon and vanilla."

Emma takes the drink and gives it one more experimental sniff, despite the fact that the aroma has already made her mouth water with anticipation. She takes a small sip at first but that is enough – the warm liquid coasts her tongue in a way that simple milk could not have hoped to do – the taste and texture exquisitely rich, and then the flavours explode – teetering on the line between sweet and bitter, both smoothed and enhanced by the distinct kick of the cinnamon and the softness of the vanilla.

So focused on the sensations inside her mouth, she is quite unaware of what her face is doing, though Killian must not be because in the next second his laugh fills the gradually brightening kitchen. She would be rather offended, if it wasn't for the fact that the sound is absolutely magnificent. That and he does seem – as is becoming usual – to delight in her reactions rather than mock them.

Emma takes another, more generous sip before she licks her lips and sets her cup down.

"Oh, you have made a believer out of me. Plain milk will never do again."

"You should tell Mrs Lucas to increase her weekly purchase of the stuff then."

"Me?" now she is very conscious of how her eyes widen with obvious dread of such an interaction.

"She does not actually bite," Killian's voice is reassuring but the glint in his eyes as he lifts his own cup to his mouth is anything but.

"With a bark like that I'm sure she does not need to."

It's more a snort than a laugh this time but Emma is much too distracted by the way his tongue flicks over his lips to clean them to mind.

In the golden morning light, now edging its way into every corner and crevice of the kitchen, with his jacket and waistcoat absent, his eyes flashing every once in awhile and his lips fitting themselves against the rim of his cup with obvious pleasure, Emma Jones rather likes her husband.

/

Her knuckles pop a little as she tries to cover her yawn with the back of her hand.

"Why don't you just go to bed?" Alice's voice startles her – the girl has collected about a dozen cushions and pillows in front of the large fireplace in the library and is languidly making her way through The Odyssey and a pot of tea that Emma has refused to partake in. "You should know, tomorrow I will drag you out of doors, if I have to."

Alice has certainly inherited her father's cheek though not his preference for comfort of his own home. For it seems there is no greater offense to Miss Jones than remaining indoors on a "perfectly lovely summer day". Indeed, on most days, Emma agrees with her with pleasure or at least without too much protest.

But the exceptionally early start of her day has left Emma both in good spirits and at the same time very reluctant to risk that pleasant, mellow feeling by quitting the house. So she showed some willfulness for the first time and postponed going to the seamstress from who they were to collect the last of her new wardrobe. Killian, receiving a substantial amount of correspondence before lunch, asked not to be bothered with such trifles and Emma hasn't seen or heard him leave his study since. Alice was all too eager to exchange a trip to the shops for a long ride and was only temporary put out when Emma expressed her disinclination to join her.

So it is that she has spent most of her day learning the last details about the household from Ruby and going over the shopping lists – adding extra chocolate – with Mrs Lucas. Surprisingly the old woman displayed only her usual amount of annoyance in Emma's presence and even accepted a suggestion or two she made (while declining another half a dozen, of course).

"You do not have to wait on me, I should be going to bed shortly," Alice continues, breaking Emma out of her retrospection of her supposedly uneventful day. "And you certainly won't be able to keep your eyes open long enough to see papa."

"He was up early," she replies before she can think to feign ignorance.

"He is always the first to light a candle in the mornings and the last to put it out in the evenings," it is the first time she sees melancholy on Alice's face, though, for a moment, something livelier and hopeful flashes through her eyes.

Emma frowns in thought – by her personal observations and calculations, it is simply impossible that Killian gets more than four or five hours of sleep.

They are silent long enough that Alice returns to her book and Emma watches the flames dancing in the fireplace – her own book abandoned on the little table beside her – and listens to the very stillness of the house. When the clock strikes 11, the fire is dangerously low and Emma is starting to feel a slight chill in the air. Alice leaves book, teacup and scattered furniture all as is and stretches her arms to the sides, declaring herself fit to go to bed. Her "goodnight" is rather pointed but her eyes are all softness and comfort and Emma stares after her for a minute or ten.

Then she jumps to her feet with a sudden burst of determination that she knows she must seize before it deserts her. A minute later she enters Killian's study without knocking – Mrs Lucas would've probably dragged her out by the hair, if she had seen her.

"Why did you take me in?"

"I beg your pardon?" Killian's head shoots up – his eyes are bloodshot from staring at the tiny figures before him under the light of a single candle. There is a half-full tumbler of golden liquid beside him but the room smells of wax rather than alcohol and Emma soldiers on.

"I know Regina was looking for a buyer and I know she didn't expect to get half as good a deal as this. On top of the expenses of a wife, I'd wager she requested a nice commission for facilitating it all—"

"You would wager _what _exactly?" his voice is harsher than she has ever heard it directed at her and his scowl tells her how little he appreciates her brashness in this moment.

But she does not wish to be so tempted by answers that next time she has the opportunity to eavesdrop on some conversation, she does betray him.

"Nothing. For I have nothing. Some would say that I have ever less than a common girl and I know Regina—"

"Blast Regina. You think she was looking for a buyer?" Killian doesn't jump to his feet the way she did earlier but the motion is somehow so powerful and full of agitation that Emma takes an instinctive step back. "Aye, that she was. And she wasn't selling you the nice way either – quiet and private. She was getting desperate and acting like it was a bloody auction!"

She knew, of course. She knew Regina never cared for her and would sell her to the highest bidder. Her own metaphor aligns perfectly with Killian's. And yet, hearing it from someone else's mouth, having it confirmed that her grandmother shamelessly put her on the market like a piece of meat, makes her vision start to swim.

Emma tries to swallow around the lump in her throat and feels the tips of her nails digging into the flesh of her palm. Killian's sharp exhale makes her vision sharpen a little as she tries to focus on him again – he looks rather stricken and she almost opens her mouth to assure him that he hasn't really told her anything she didn't already suspect.

"Emma, I—" he takes a step forward then halts, looking as if he expects her to back away, and takes the next two slower, keeping his eyes on hers. "I'm sorry. I did not mean to—"

"So why did you bid?"

"What?"

She raises her chin and holds his gaze.

"If she was putting me out there like an auction piece, why did you bid?"

Killian slowly tilts his head to the side and regards her in silence and Emma tries to count her breaths so she doesn't miss any. Finally, he sighs and hangs his head and for the first time since she barged into his study Emma feels like she has stepped out of line.

And for what?

"I will answer that."

She blinks in surprise.

"Tomorrow. Can we do this tomorrow morning? I—" he waves almost helplessly toward his desk and gives her a beseeching look.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

She nods.

"But after the sun has properly risen."

His mouth ticks up hesitantly on one side and he nods as well.

"After the sun is firmly anchored in the sky."

"And maybe with that chocolate drink."

"That can be arranged as well."

"Alright."

"Alright."

She nods once more and turns on her heel.

"Emma. I am sorry, I shouldn't have spoken to you like that."

She turns back and lifts her shoulders, her eyes straying from his.

"I shouldn't have barged in here like that."

"One offense does not excuse another."

"Hmm. I like that."

"It won't happen again."

"Alright. I am not— You are forgiven."

She is not sure this is the proper thing to say, it comes out sounding much haughtier than she wanted it to, not at all the sentiment she was trying to convey. But the look on Killian's face stops her from regretting her choice of words.

"Goodnight, Killian."

"Goodnight."

"Go to bed."

His chuckle behind her is tired but not entirely mirthless.

/

She makes her way down the stairs and hopes with all her might to find Jones in the kitchen again. The library, let alone his study, will certainly hold the stale feeling of late night confusion and overexposed emotions.

Truth be told, by now Emma almost regrets posing the question that has been foremost in her mind ever since she heard Mrs Lucas put it into words, if not ever since she learnt she was to marry Killian Jones. Fairly gained intelligence is all good and proper but she is not entirely sure she is prepared to receive this particular piece of it.

Finding Killian where she hoped to restores a smidge of her confidence but she is still very conscious of the fact that – were he to act like nothing happened, she will allow it. Alas, if the look on his face is any indication, if he entertained the coward's path at all, he decided to turn away from it.

"The sun is up, as requested. Should we make use of it and take a walk?"

Emma blinks in surprise. She considered the sturdy walls and dark tones of the house more befitting the conversation before them but now feels immense relief at the thought of fresh air and an open space.

Killian pushes off the counter and hands her a cup of what she assumes is hot chocolate and Emma's straining nerves relax a little when her hand wraps around the warm cup – this one is bigger than the one he served them in the day before, its rim is not curved and instead it has a lid that she supposes will keep the liquid warm longer. For a moment, she wonders if Killian puts this much thought into every single action, if that is why he requested a whole night before he answered a straight question. It sounds both endearing and exhausting.

He holds the backdoor for her and they slip from the kitchen, the air much crisper than she expected.

"Would you like me to fetch you a coat?"

She shakes her head, knowing she will regret it soon enough and clutching her cup tighter. Then she turns to face her husband and, in the direct sunlight, comes to wonder if he has been to bed at all. His shirt and waistcoat are different but his hair looks like it has met with his hand rather than a pillow, the lines around his eyes seem deeper, the shadow under them – likewise.

He has not taken a drink for himself and – whether for his benefit or hers she wastes no time to determine – Emma slips her free hand in the crook of his right elbow. Killian startles but settles soon enough that she decides the gesture has been deemed acceptable.

"I believe it is of no use to do things by halves. So I've decided to give you more information than you were probably searching for, in order to make myself quite clear."

His voice is gruff but not unkind and her surprise at this pronouncement is genuine but not unpleasant.

"I believe Mrs Mills has been struggling to maintain appearances while her finances have been failing her."

Emma suspected as much herself but doubts she is aware of the full extend of Regina's presumed troubles.

"I do not wish to be crude but I… I also believe she took stock of her valuables and decided you were the one she was most willing to part with."

"I assure you, Regina would consider it much too great a compliment rather than an offense of any sort that I am being listed among her valuables."

Killian glances at her before quickly looking away. He seems somewhat taken aback by her blasé attitude toward her grandmother's mistreatment but even more so by the intimacy walking arm in arm has brought. Emma is fully aware that this is the closest she has been to her husband – physically speaking, but her main focus at the present moment is how close he is about to allow her in another sense.

"Yes, well… I think her mounting frustrations made her rather careless and… desperation is never a good calling card when the object is an engagement. Perhaps it wasn't like that at first but— Emma, I am not sure you quite understand how far removed from society I am personally and how rare it is for gossip to make its way to my ears."

She feels the blazing heat in her cheeks despite the morning chill that has control over most of the rest of her body. It's a long time that she has been parted with her grandmother's good – or at least tolerant – opinion and, as for society, Emma never much cared what gossip may spread about her, seeing as most of it will be deserved and she cared little for the company of people willing to be swayed by it.

Yet the idea of what whisperings might have reached all the way to the inhabitants of the Jones household makes the knot in her stomach tighten even further now.

"I do not wish to… to interrupt but I fail to see how that has led us… here."

Killian sighs and, likely unconsciously, tightens his arm around her own.

"For that I need to… I will have to go further back. What I meant for you to take from this is that, knowingly or not, your grandmother was destroying your reputation and any future aspirations with an alarming – frankly, almost impressive, speed."

When she lifts the cup to her mouth, it shakes a little in her grasp and Emma tries to tell herself that if the answer to why Killian Jones brought her into his family is pity, it is not the worst answer she could have received.

"My previous wife did not hold our daughter in much higher esteem than your grandmother seems to hold you."

The change of topic is so sudden that her neck pops a little when she twists in his direction. He glances at her – his smile is tight and dark and his steps almost cease for an instant before he resumes the brisk pace that has been keeping her from truly suffering the coldness that the sun is still working on chasing away.

"Of course, I do not pretend to know the nature of your relationship but at the very least you were allowed to remain in Mrs Mill's presence. My wife did not allow Alice the same courtesy and send her away to school as soon as such a scheme was feasible. A-and she could carry it out without my knowledge."

Emma bites her tongue against the barge of questions bubbling up from inside her. Why would any mother want to be parted from her child? She supposes her indignation might be finding some outlet through her eyes but Killian's are firmly focused on the trees in the distance. She is glad for it because – even as most of her anger is directed toward a woman now in her grave, she cannot quite understand why Killian would submit to such an arrangement after it was made known to him.

"When Alice was old enough and confident enough in herself to express her wish to remain at home for longer periods of time – and received my full support of the idea – her mother adopted a new method of keeping her away."

Killian watches their feet advancing slowly for a few seconds and Emma takes a fortifying breath.

"My daughter found herself in much the same position as you, only much earlier in her life and, sadly, there could be no question of whether her chances and reputation was being ruined on purpose or not."

"How could she—"

Killian's jaw tightens and Emma stops herself from finishing the question.

"I do not mean to present my conduct in a more altruistic light than it deserves, Emma. My brother and his wife were much engaged in the task of introducing me to as many ladies as a man who does not attend dances and dinners could possibly meet. And it was my hope – for whose fulfilment I do wish to express my gratitude to you – that my daughter's age and temperament would not set the two of you at odds and that your introduction into the family will provide sufficient reason for her to remain here for some time."

She has drawn and discarded a dozen conclusions in the span of the last quarter of an hour and for each question that has been answered in some form a dozen more have arisen, but if Emma is uncertain that she can receive any more information at present, she is quite certain that Killian cannot give any more with additional pain to himself.

And if there is one conclusion that she has drawn and put safely away as fact, it is that she does not wish to cause Killian Jones any pain.

"So how bad is it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How far did Regina go before you could get to her? How bad of a blow is it to be married to me?"

It is the first time since they stepped outside that Killian comes to a firm stop and she tries not to give in to the shiver and stab of pain when he lets go of her arm so he can face her.

"I am a man who has taken many blows in his life, Emma."

The pointed motion with his wooden hand surprises her but not nearly as much as the warmth of the fingers that settle under her chin and gently urge it up.

"I can assure you, you're not one of them."


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Emma,_

If Emma had any doubts about Killian's claims, the letter she receives from Mary Margaret the very next day would've put them to rest. As it is, she is grateful to be forewarned so the information Mary relays is not as much of a shock to her as it apparently was to her friend.

Still, her heart can't help but constrict painfully at Mary's badly hidden distress. The indignation on the sheet of paper is palpable – how the last cup of tea Emma shared with her friend wasn't even washed yet when Mary's apartment became the preferred destination for good Samarians who wanted to warn her that she'd better wait a fortnight before paying her friend a visit as _some_ people expected Killian Jones to put her out of his house in no time at all.

Emma is not terribly surprised. Whatever rumours might circulate about Captain Jones, he is still a man and one with a decent income at that. Society may wag its tongues but it will never spit him out. It obviously has no such qualms about Emma.

Mary, however – with her less than favourable opinion of Emma's husband, is obviously incented by the mere suggestion that Killian might be the one to find fault with Emma rather than the other way around. Yet, Emma can't help but notice that it has taken more than a week for her friend to write to her. She believes this as well probably stems from Mary's distrust of her husband, rather than a desire to set herself apart from Emma and, while the latter would have been truly devastating, she finds that the former causes her a fair bit of annoyance as well.

She can't help the spike of irritation when her friend's manner of writing adopts the style of one addressing a prisoner – as if she were a princess locked in a towel guarded by a dragon. Though that image is only wrong in spirit for, compared to her life with Regina, Emma does feel rather like a princess and, reading about the social fires raging in town, she rather appreciates the protection of her public-shunning dragon.

Thus, Emma sits at her desk, staring out of the window and wondering what on earth is the proper thing to do – invite her closest friend to visit her in her new home like any newly married woman would or absolve her of having to associate herself with Emma at least for the near future. Eventually, as with most things, Emma decides to trust the feeling deep in her gut. She writes back to Mary Margaret, inviting her to visit if and only if she is confident it won't prove too much of a stain on her snow white reputation and, as kindly as she can, asks her not to abuse Killian's name without reason.

/

But it is not that letter which takes Emma by surprise, expected even earlier as it had been. It's the one she finds the morning after, when she and Alice are sorting through their correspondence and Emma is trying – as she does every morning – not to notice the steady flow of letters Alice receives – all carrying the same pretty cursive.

She gets up and heads for Killian's study, turning the letter over and over in her hand.

"I think you forgot this one," she says when she is within reach of his desk and he can get a good look at the name.

He looks up and Emma purses her lips so she doesn't grin at the way he squints and pushes his glasses up his nose.

"I did not. It's addressed to you."

"Yes, but it's from your sister-in-law."

"Aye, but it's addressed to you. I'm not going to go around opening your correspondence, Emma, no matter who it might be from."

Emma draws her hand back to her side and mulls that over. Privacy is most certainly not something she has been deprived off in this house but she appreciates the freedoms that she keeps discovering, freedoms that she thought – still thinks really – not many women enjoy.

"May I?"

She waves a hand toward one of the armchairs in Killian's study and he blinks at her a couple of time in surprise before he nods his affirmation. Emma drops into the chair's soft depths slightly less gracefully than she intended and a sly look at Killian shows that he might have noticed, if the way he focuses hard on the papers before him and purses his own lips to keep them from stretching is any indication. She does her best to control her blush and turns her attention back to Elsa's letter. Elsa's invitation, as it turns out.

"There's to be a dance."

"I expected as much."

"You did?"

"Hmm. You and Alice should pick some new gowns this week."

She laughs.

"I just finished filling a whole wardrobe, I believe I'll manage to find something to wear. Does that mean we will be attending?"

Killian finally looks up again and Emma thinks that surprise is definitely the reaction she seems to inspire the most in her husband.

"Even I don't refuse invitations extended by my own brother and his lovely wife. Especially when the whole affair is organized to welcome my new wife."

He gives her a pointed look and Emma feels her eyes widen, the letter almost slipping from her cold fingers.

"Oh. But… this can't— You must tell them there is no need—"

Killian waves his hand in a gesture that seems to say nothing can be done about it now.

"Do not concern yourself, Elsa would seize any and every opportunity for a ball. I would've been concerned for my sister's health had she failed to send such an invitation before the close of the month. It will also…" Killian looks her in the eyes, a certain amount of caution and gentleness swimming in the blue. "Well, it will be a good thing for us to do."

There is no blush on her cheeks now, she is certain, for while the feeling for one is there, her face must be quite pale as she realizes that the Jones's are throwing a ball to demonstrate that Killian has not married her just to hide her away like a shameful secret.

"Oh, this is really—"

Emma flounders for a bit before she drops her face in her hands and tries to master her emotions, her shoulders hunched and her fingers digging into the roots of her hair as she breathes through her nose. Focused as she is on that crucial task, the warmth of Killian's hand on her knee is like a jolt to her entire system. She looks up to find him kneeling in front of her, a cautious and concerned expression on his face.

"Emma, there truly is nothing to worry about. It's not at all unusual to celebrate an addition to the family with a—"

"Yes, except," her voice is choked but she soldiers on. "This is not a celebration but a demonstration—"

"That depends entirely on how you choose to see it."

She opens her mouth to protest but the calmness on his face stops the words in her throat.

"Papa, I have decided what— Oh. Is something the matter?"

The concern on Alice's face is the last push Emma needs to pull herself together and she smiles up at the girl the best she can as her hand reaches to quickly squeeze Killian's in silent gratitude – the warmth of it almost seeping into her own fingers.

"It would seem we are going to a ball."

"Ah, is that what aunt Elsa wrote you about? But… do you not wish to go, Emma?"

"No, no, I do. I was just… surprised, her requesting that I be her guest of honour is a bit... I'm sure to muck it up."

Alice laughs at her choice of words and shakes her head as Killian gets back to his feet.

"It's really not that difficult. You just have to look nice but also not overshadow aunt."

Emma takes her own turn to laugh.

"I'm quite certain there is no danger of that."

"What did you come to tell me, darling?"

"Ah, yes," and just like that the sparkle is back in Alice's eyes. "I've decided what we are to do today."

"And you have been so kind as to come pass your sentence personally."

Alice rolls her eyes in a manner that Emma is sure many a proper lady would have quite a few choice words for but no one in the room seems to mind.

"We're going to the lake. Ruby is already preparing a basket."

Killian casts a mournful look at his desk before he sighs and turns back to his daughter.

"Aye, aye, cap'n."

/

Ruby tries to stifle her laugh as she watches the mistress of the house rub mournfully at the heel of her foot.

"I have never seen a woman this fond of walking and riding, and running, and really any physically taxing activity on the face of the earth."

Now she can't help but chuckle in agreement.

"She was much worse when she was little, if you can believe it."

"Oh, what did she do then? Fly?"

"She tried it once. Thankfully, she was already smart enough to choose a window on the ground floor. Granny says half of Captain Jones's gray hairs are from that very day."

Emma shakes her head and fits her foot back in her soft slipper with the slightest whimper before she takes the other one in her hands. Ruby adds one last log to the fire in the library and turns to leave when Emma speaks up again.

"Ruby, did— Was there a ball given when… when the late Mrs Jones became… Mrs Jones?"

Ruby frowns a bit, digging into her own memories and trying to order what her grandmother has told her.

"Well, I think I wasn't old enough to be helping Granny around the kitchen yet. She'd only been here for a year or so. Ever since the captain had come back from the war and taken the house, you know? And she—" Ruby smiles at her first memories of sneaking rolls behind Granny's back. "She'd bring me round from time to time, she couldn't always leave me with neighbours and all and she says Killian never minded. Now, _she_ minded plenty but she had bigger messes to make to bother with me."

Granny being the irreproachable fortress than she is, Ruby always gladly takes on the role of a more welcoming and engaging presence, but even she made an exception for Eloise. The woman scared her as a child and then—

She shakes her head and focuses her eyes on Emma's curious green ones. Her mouth is set in a line that tells Ruby whatever she has heard has been enough to incite less than tender sympathies toward the previous Mrs Jones.

"But, no. No, I was told the whole thing was very quick and quiet. No announcements, no fanfare. I don't think anyone was at the ceremony except for Admiral Jones. And then… well, she went into society a lot, I think. But never with the captain. There was this group of women – they'd come here often and then she would visit with them for long periods of time. I think everybody rather preferred it that way."

She closes her mouth and sucks her lips in, sensing that she might have gotten carried away. Emma only asked about a ball and Ruby doesn't want her thinking that she'll grasp at any opportunity to gossip.

"Thank you. I umm…," Emma's own discomfort puts her more at ease. "I didn't mean to pry into— I just wanted to get an idea. No matter. Thank you."

Her smile is a little forced and nervous and Ruby returns it with a warm and genuine one. She has been watching Emma tiptoe around the house and the family even since she got here and she finds it both endearing and a little saddening. She almost wants to tell her that there is little she can do that will stand in a bad light compared to what came to pass before her, she wants to tell her that a little calmness and a little softness is all they all need and she seems to have enough of both within her.

But she doesn't say any of that. It's not her place and her grandmother will have her head, if she does. Ruby doesn't get how she can still be suspicious of the new mistress's intentions but she knows there is no use arguing with her – no one but Granny can convince Granny that she is wrong. So with another smile, she turns to leave, stopping with the door handle in her hand.

"Another thing, Miss Alice's secret might be retiring to bed before the witching hour. Which cannot often be said about her father and yourself."

/

Emma stretches her aching legs in front of her one more time before she gets up and makes her way to the study at the end of the corridor for the second time that day.

The late summer day on the lake proved a nice distraction. Alice is something of an expert on lake and woodland creatures alike, Ruby is most certainly an expert on putting together a picnic in an hour and Killian apparently likes to pretend that he is an expert at stone skipping even though she defeated him twice as often as he did her. But, most importantly, none of them seem to be experts on ball etiquette and, rather than make her more anxious, this seemed to calm Emma's nerves concerning the whole affair.

Back when she first came out into society, Regina was willing to let her go to as many dances as three gowns per season would permit her. But after a certain point in her young life her public appearances steadily decreased. At first, it was deemed the wise thing to do – to just disappear for a bit, to not fan the rumours' flames by showing her face all around town, and then afterwards, Emma herself had lost all interest in the frivolities of meeting young ladies and gentlemen who cared more about what was being said about her and what she was wearing in her hair than what was in her head, let alone her heart – the latter was almost unmanageably heavy and after some time she tried to keep the former as blank as possible.

Obviously, whatever good her restrained and demure presence had achieved was undone by Regina's candidness and desperate rush to find her a husband and now, in a few weeks' time, Emma will have her first chance to hopefully start anew as Mrs Emma Jones. She tries to chase the thought away before it can seep all the way inside her and twist her all up, instead she takes the open door as a good sign and leans her hip lightly on the doorframe as she waits for Killian to look up from whatever he is scribbling furiously.

It takes long enough that her feet start tingling in protest again. Finally, his eyes rise and then so do his eyebrows – the question obvious and underlined with a touch of annoyance. She concentrates on not shifting nervously on her feet.

"Did you need something, Emma?"

"No, just trying to determine the chances of me having married a vampire."

He snorts, obviously unwillingly amused.

"I assure you, I age," he sets his pen down and reaches for his glass, lifting it to his mouth only to find it empty.

Emma shakes her head and turns on her heel without another word. In the kitchen Mrs Lucas informs her that Ruby has gone to bed.

"Oh, I don't need anyone. Just to know where the chamomile and valerian root are."

The cook huffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest but she points out where everything Emma asks for is and leans back against the table with a look that tells Emma she is watching every move she makes in her kitchen.

"That's not gonna work."

Emma shrugs her shoulders as if it's all the same to her.

"And I could've done it for ya."

"And what should I do?"

"How should I know? Whatever it is that you ladies do when you are all provided for. Prop your feet on a pillow, admire lace, get one of them small dogs."

Emma laughs at that last part.

"I prefer cats."

"Cats are kitchen animals."

"Well, maybe that's why I like the kitchen quite so much," she replies with a little challenge in the tilt of her chin as she arranges her tea tray under the older woman's hawk-like gaze.

Mrs Lucas grunts in displeasure.

"Between your liking and him taking his breakfast in here all the time, I might as well leave the kitchen to the masters and go have all the rest of the house to myself."

It is certainly an amusing image and, ever since first finding Killian here, Emma can't say that she terribly minds the idea of them being locked in the small space and letting Mrs Lucas reigned over all else.

When first faced with the reality and imminence of it, Emma looked toward her marriage with a cool sort of resignation, then, much as she tried to maintain that detachment in front of Mary Margaret and Regina, and even herself, Emma inevitably started planning how to make her life as a married woman the most painless and bearable. She started envisioning a day in her future and trying to determine which moments she will be able to steal for herself, what spaces she will be able to carve out for herself. Most of all, of course, she thought her evenings and nights would not be her own and she most definitely did not envision fancying the idea of being shut in a small room with her husband.

Now, she is relieved to see that Killian has not shut the door to his study after her abrupt departure and she only has to nudge it slightly with her foot so she can carry her tea tray inside. It is as she looks for a place to put it that she realizes for the first time how rigidly ordered everything on Jones' desk is – she deposits the tray a safe distance away from all the perfectly aligned piles of papers.

"Umm, thank you," Killian doesn't go as far as to eye the tea with distrust but it's a near thing. "You needn't have… I lean towards something a tad sharper in the evenings."

Emma looks at the small arrangement of bottles on the high wooden table a few feet from his desk and approaches it slowly. She takes the silence as permission and leans down to inspect the bottles. Save for a couple of scotches, they are all different bottles of rum and even Emma's meager knowledge is enough to determine that some of them are rather exotic and have probably crossed the ocean to find themselves here. She takes an opened and unremarkable one that she is almost certain she has seen before and turns around.

By now Killian is leaning back in his chair and watching her with undisguised amusement. At her questioning look, he swipes his arm in a gesture of generous invitation and watches her as she returns to her tea with the bottle clutched in her hand so tightly that her fingers look even more pale than usual.

Some small part of Emma wants to back out now and even that part knows that it's too late for that. So she tries to loosen her shoulders as inconspicuously as possible and unscrews the cap on the bottle. She pours a small amount of the dark liquid into each of the two teacups – just enough not to be laughable, closes the bottle and sets it to the side.

Killian has put his writing instruments aside since she left to prepare the tea she is now pouring.

"You are finished?" she asks in her surprise.

"I still have to read through these," he inclines his head toward a small pile of papers set front and center.

"Do you have to do that here?"

His right eyebrow climbs up, creasing his forehead and disappearing somewhere under the hair that has fallen over it.

"I suppose not."

Emma picks up the tray again and thanks whatever star she was born under that it doesn't shake in her white-knuckled grasp. She takes to steps backwards, careful not to step on her own dress and make a fool of herself, and lifts an eyebrow of her own.

She turns around at the door and heads for the library, her heart performing an admirable attempt at escaping her chest as she tries to focus on not spilling anything and not on listening if there is another set of footsteps coming up behind her.

As soon as she makes it inside, she sets the tray down with a clatter and takes a seat, her hands balled into fists in her lap. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and now she cannot help but strain her ears toward the corridor. Nothing. She bites her lower lip and tries to quickly wall in the feeling of humiliation that threatens to wash over her whole body.

Then she hears a door close. It takes less than half a minute to cross the distance between Killian's study and the library and it's a lucky thing indeed, seeing as Emma doesn't breathe until he quietly slips into the room.

The look Killian gives her as he sits on the other end of the settee is downright evil but it doesn't detract from her feeling of victory in the least. Nor does the pointed way he deposits his small mountain of papers beside the tea tray before he picks up one of the cups.

Satisfied, Emma takes the book she set aside and tucks her tired feet under her – the very picture of innocence that's only ruined by the way she chokes a little on the first sip of the concoction in her teacup.

"Aye. Next time don't use the rum I used to disinfect Alice's scrapped knees with."

She chokes a second time. That seems to satisfy Killian's need for revenge and he settles more comfortably, adjusting his glasses and focusing on the document in his hand.

Mrs Lucas comes in a short time later to stoke the fire and ask if they need anything or she can retire for the night, looking at the teapot as if she still can't quite accept that Emma has taken charge of it.

Emma has made some admirable progress with her book when her yawns start getting longer and harder to swallow around, her eyes watering a little more with each one.

"You really needn't wait for me, love."

Her hand freezes midway to her mouth and her eyes snap to Killian who somehow still manages to appear deeply engrossed in his own reading, though she is sure it is much drier and more complicated than her own. The endearment bounces in her mind for a moment longer and she tries to keep her face impassive – neither surprised, not pleased. But she can't deny – and is only mildly startled to find – that inside she is both.

When Killian doesn't look up, she eyes the sheets that he still hasn't gotten to and sighs. She tries to concentrate on her book again long enough to finish her chapter before she gets up to return it to its shelf.

"You know you can leave it out, don't you? Or take it up with you."

She hesitates for a moment before she comes back and leaves the book on the side table. When she reaches for the tea tray Killian's voice derails her again.

"I'll put it away later."

"You don't have—"

"Emma, it's fine, just leave it."

She sighs again and thinks it probably sounds more like a huff, the way his mouth twitches at her exasperation.

"Alright. Good night."

"Good night."

She hesitates at the door long enough to glare at the way Killian rolls his knuckles over his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Really, it's a fine thing that they don't sleep in the same bed or there is no way she will let this happen night after night.

/

For such a heavy door, it closes with the softest of clicks – which doesn't stop the sound from echoing around in Killian's mind long after.

As light and quiet as her presence is, the moment it is gone is much like a pitch black night at sea following on the heels of a full moon. There is a reason the moon recedes bit by bit, waning sailors off its light before it leaves them completely in the dark – the shock would be much too jarring otherwise.

And Killian Jones thought he of all men was prepared for anything when it came to taking on a new wife. Killian Jones was wrong. He is not at all prepared to enjoy having one.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Alright, time to start bringing some things into the light.

First, there is a slight possible trigger in this chapter but it's also a pretty big spoiler so you can check it out in the notes at the end, if you wanna be prepared. Second, just on the off chance that anyone side-eyes Emma in this chapter - you're totally entitled to it but I'd just like to point out that considering the (vague) time period of this piece and what and to whom she is revealing, she is actually being pretty strong and stoic. And lastly, the touching is off the charts yo (you know, by this fic's standards).

* * *

No good day starts with bloodstains on your bedspread and a pulsing pain in your lower back but, like with much else in her life, Emma tries to make the best of it. She asks Ruby to heat some water for her and rubs her hands together to bring some warmth into them, knowing all the while these next few days her soul will feel even more coldly received in her body than usual.

She pulls on the heavy doors of her overly large wardrobe to pick as dark a dress as appropriate for a sunny day and pulls her hair away from her face in a shape she hopes is acceptable for suffering silently in the comforts of one's home.

/

She fixes her sympathetic eyes on the woman leaning as close to the stove as safety will allow to seek some alleviation of her present condition.

"Surely you will be more comfortable in your room. I can come right up and get the fire going."

"Oh, no, it's alright. It's not cold at all."

That it is not – it is a perfectly sunny day for early September but Ruby has quickly learnt that "It isn't cold" does not equal "I'm not cold" when it comes to their new mistress.

"Have you had a chance to enjoy the swing in the garden?"

Emma turns to look out of the window.

"There is a swing in the garden?"

"Oh, yes. It's at the very edge of it but it's quite perfect," Ruby smiles and dusts off her hands before she urges Emma to follow her outside.

It's indeed a perfectly pleasant day, though Ruby can't help but feel like the air is much too thick and still, as if hunkering down and preparing for one of the first storms of the season. She makes a note to hang the last of the laundry and gather the flowers that will surely be ruined, if left outside for the first rain.

"When she was young, Alice refused to lie down for a nap inside when the sun was shining. And then she would fall asleep on picnic blankets or right on the grass before we could so much as bring her a pillow."

She sneaks a glance at Emma's smiling face and feels something soft and hopeful bloom in her chest. She and Granny have always done their best for Alice with pleasure and devotion but Ruby can't help but feel like a weight has been slowly slipping off her shoulders ever since Emma arrived.

"So Captain Jones had the swing put up – just far enough so that the noise in the house wouldn't wake her but close enough that we could watch over her. And large enough to fit a child and heavy enough not to topple over," she adds with a chuckle.

They take a turn and right there, behind the apples trees, the black, iron cast swing sits, bathed in sunlight, the way Ruby hoped it will be. One look at Emma tells her that she has found the perfect spot for her mistress to pass the worst of those days of the month that every woman has to bear.

"Let me just fetch you some pillows and a blanket."

/

She mustn't forget to thank Ruby for bringing her here. As the sun shines down on her midsection, Emma almost feels comfortable in her body for the first time today. She has to give credit to Killian, the swing is positioned perfectly – benefitting from the best of the warm sunshine, the smell of fruit and flowers just out of reach and the lush green views to the side. It is not at all a hard task to picture a cherub-like Alice running around and refusing to be brought indoors and lose even a second of the summer days.

Yet, the pleasant image brings a sudden stab of pain that is much worse than the dull ache she has been suffering all day. She tries to chase it away the way she has learnt to do but the damage is done and the fragility of the present is not as easy to dismiss as the immutability of the past.

Just like in this very moment, Emma has started to become much too comfortable in this space that miraculously seems to have a place for her. She has done a terribly good job of avoiding the stone that can still trip her and send her hurtling into the dark unknown that she can only speculate about in her nightmares.

The worry of _what may follow_ has been keeping her carefully and obediently in check but the guilt of _what is_ rears to the forefront now, as she lies in the iron cast evidence of what a wonderful father Killian Jones is.

"Do you need to be rocked to sleep as well?"

She startles horribly and the only thing that saves her from toppling to the ground is that Ruby was right and the swing has indeed been made to keep its cargo safe.

Killian's hand takes a hold of one end and stops the last of the wobbling as Emma tries to slow the thunder beating of her heart. She looks up and frowns at the bowl cradled in his left elbow before she realizes that he must've had to quickly free his right hand.

"I see Ruby didn't teach you how to use one of these before she gave you free reign over it."

Half an hour ago, she would've laughed. Half an hour ago, the bowl of cut peaches and apples he passes to her now would've made her heart flutter pleasantly. But neither the bird song, nor Killian's sparkling eyes above her can make her heart feel less burdened and twisted up right now. Only she can do that.

"Emma, are you alright? Ruby said you were indisposed but I didn't think—"

She flushes a little, thinking that this particular subject must certainly be taboo between most husbands and wives, even ones that _have_ been intimate. But then she considers and realizes anew that, in the absence of a truly caring mother, Killian has probably been too good a father to his daughter to remain ignorant on such matters.

She twists around and rises to a sitting position fast enough that he stumbles back a step. She doesn't even let herself take a proper breath, she can't allow the worry of what will follow to cower her into silence once again.

"I must tell you now."

She must, should have done it a dozen times already, should have done it before he tied himself to her, should certainly do it before he allows his whole family to publicly stand beside her, should do it before there is no turning back even if turning back will cost her more than she can afford and comprehend.

She sees the moment the gravity of it, of whatever is in her voice, reaches Killian. The sparkle is tempered as if pouring water over fire, his mouth thins out into a perfectly straight line and all but the most permanent lines on his face smooth out as if to hide away the very humanity, the very vulnerability, of him. His shoulders straighten to give him his full height and the ability to take on whatever she intends to put on them. He has been in battle and he knows how to prepare for an attack.

From where she is sitting, he is an intimidating sight, but it is the fact that he manages so quickly to raise a defense against her that causes Emma's heart to shrink even further within her – if it could escape the prison of her entirely, it probably would have done so long ago.

"Could you… could you sit down?" she hates how small her voice sounds, how fragile, if not broken already, but it seems to soften Killian's stance just enough that he can fold his knees and take a seat on the pillowed swing, his gaze focused on the grass beneath them.

"I should've done this earlier. Regina told me that she had disclosed—"

"Emma, I am…" he clears his throat and looks up at her and she can see the question in his eyes, the permission he seeks to speak freely on a topic that will shame any woman worth anything. "I am aware that you have lain with another man… men."

If nothing else, Emma is glad to discover that she cannot perish from mortification alone – for if she could, her time would've most certainly come already.

"Man. He… it was just one man."

Killian nods and she can't tell if he is relieved or indifferent, can't even stop to consider what it is she wants him to be, not with what is looming ahead of her.

"He was—"

"You don't have to—"

"I know you can't wish to hear it and… please, believe me, I don't wish to tell it but… Regina— Regina did not tell you all. She only told you what needed to be immediately—" she cuts off, aware that had Regina never told Killian anything, he could've still believed her chase and pure now. "What she thought needed to be immediately known."

Emma watches her fingers pinch the fabric of her skirts and her chest rise with her next deep breath and her next, and her next. Until she dares to look at the man beside her and find his eyes resolutely focused on her and filled with confusion.

"He was a horse dealer."

She watches his brows furrow and then lift as his eyes widen with quick realization.

"Yes, I… I used to ride a fair bit but Regina would never actually buy a horse so I just kept—"

"Emma."

The tone of his voice makes her freeze, her mouth staying half open as she tries not to flinch at the rage that finally begins to simmer in Killian's eyes. She knew no man would want to listen to this sort of thing, especially coming from his wife's mouth but—

"When we were at the stables, you— Emma, did he force you—"

"Oh! Oh, no. No, this—"

A moment ago she thought herself beyond the point of blushing but now she discovers it anew when she has to reveal another turn that puts her conduct in an even worse light. For surely, for anyone but her – she cannot make herself regret that it was not so, no matter what fault it might take off her – it would've been much better, if at least she hadn't been complicit, if she had tried to deny him.

"It was not… It was in the stables that I—" she looks down at her hands again to find them clasped firmly together, holding onto each other when they could find nothing else. "I asked him to… to run away with me."

"And he refused?"

Again she does not know if he is surprised by how far she wanted and dared to go or by how unwanted she found herself to be.

"He said he could do better."

"_He_ could do be—"

"And that he couldn't have—" the word literally chokes her and she has to choose between it and a breath but the look on Killian's face now says he will not finish this sentence for her and she has to. "A child."

The seizing in her stomach now is all things past and present all at once and she clutches the seat of the swing in her hands and strains her arms so they won't allow her to fold in on herself.

"Where—" Killian clears his throat and the sentence that comes next is less words than action ready to be realized. "Where is the child now?"

The swing groans and his feet shuffle as if he is ready to get up and go, though where and what he might wish to do she does not have the strength to imagine right now. It's only when the tears slide down her cold cheeks that she realizes she is so aware of every sound because her eyes have fallen shut.

"There is no child," it's an eerily calm whisper and she rocks along with it, the swing groaning harder.

"What?"

"There is no— He left, disappeared. And she wouldn't let me… Regina wouldn't— She knew best and I—"

A fire poker in her side would've shocked her less than his hand on her shoulder but it is as he quickly withdraws it that she realizes her own is clutching his knee in a vice grip. She lets out a hysterical little laugh at her body's sad attempt to keep him where he is.

"Emma, I need you to try to listen to me, alright? You don't have to—"

She jumps to her feet before he can say something he will have to take back in a second and feels her head spin a little from emotional vertigo and blood loss and good old fear and lord knows what else.

"And now I can't!" she hears her voice grow a little hoarse and a strange part of her mind worries if it carries all the way to the house. "Again. They said… T-the women she brought to… to do it. T-they said I was too weak and that I might never— I—"

Save for the very event she is trying and failing to retell, Emma has never fainted in her life but she knows in a minute she will crumble right where she stands. She will try not to but she knows she will.

But as Killian rises swiftly to his feet and erases the distance between them in a single large step, she does not try to stop her body from falling against his own. Every last bit of her is too cold to resist the warmth of his arms around her, too cold to wonder if he will recoil from the way her wet cheek lands against his neck, too cold to wonder if her hand has a right to clutch the back of his jacket in a desperate attempt to keep him from separating them.

/

"It's alright, Emma, it's alright."

If it wasn't for the way she is clutching at his back, he would've thought that she had gone completely limp against him, but what worries him most is that he can't properly tell if she is shivering or sobbing or some awful combination of the two.

"Just lean on me."

Killian tightens his arms around her and looks toward the house, unsure if he should bring her inside, if she would want to take the risk of anyone seeing her. He wouldn't. So he keeps his left arm around her and bring his hand to rubs gently up and down her back. She is certainly shivering and the wetness at his neck and shoulder tells him that she is crying as well and he has never been more sure of what he wants and more unsure of how to achieve it.

He lets his arms drop but her grip on him doesn't loosen, he doesn't want to push her away or touch her with his wooden attachment so he tries to take half a step back instead. The whimper that follows him surely tears a piece of his heart clean off – there is no other explanation for the way it seizes at her blind terror.

"Just a second, love."

He pulls his jacket off his left arm with her still half holding onto it before her arms drop to her sides. Killian makes quick work of shrugging the garment off completely and sets it around her shoulders before tugging on the ends of it to both pull it more securely around her and bring her closer again.

"Alright. Let's sit down again, yeah?"

Emma finally focuses her eyes back on his and the sheer hopelessness and resignation in them makes him discover a whole new reincarnation of feeling helpless.

"Emma, it's al—"

"I'm sorry. I really— I was going to tell you before… before we—"

"You—"

"And then right after. But I kept putting it off and I kept— I didn't want to—"

He urges her to sit back down and wonders how to explain that her giving him any children was the furthest thing from his mind when he married her.

"I'm sorry I—"

"Emma, stop. Listen to me," he doesn't know how to ease the pain of the past but he hopes he can at least alleviate her fear of the present, her fear of him, he thinks sadly. "I'm not angry. I'm not angry at you."

"But I-I can't—"

"I understand and I'm sorry. I'm sorry it happened but it doesn't affect— That is, I realize it will always affect you but it doesn't affect—"

Bloody hell, he doesn't know how to reassure her, he doesn't know how to explain. He never intended to be with her, he never thought she'd want much of him except what he could easily give – independence, money, security.

"You're safe here."

She blinks at him a couple of time, the tears making her eyelashes sparkle in a way that both pains and mesmerizes him. Something in her face softens and relaxes, cautiously hopeful. She still looks fearful but he realizes, with some relief, that she is more afraid of believing him than of _him_.

"I did not intend to deceive you."

"You—"

He wants to say she didn't but that would be a lie. Just because he isn't angry about it, just because it doesn't in any way affect what he imagined or expected of their marriage, doesn't mean that she didn't keep a secret. Yet, he cannot blame her.

He cannot blame her for keeping close to her heart something that hurt it so badly. He cannot blame her for being afraid to share her secrets when he trembles at the very idea of putting his own into words.

But Killian is afraid that whether he passes judgement or not has little bearing on her guilt. The only sin he can pardon is the one she seems to think she has committed against him. He remembers the unsettled feeling when he raised his voice at her, when he thought he'd upset her, he remembers the relief of her absolution.

"You are forgiven."

He wouldn't dare call it a laugh but, as she closes her eyes and lifts her shoulders, the sound that escapes her mouth is not as hopeless as a sob.

"And I don't want you to think…"

Killian takes a breath and ducks his head, he tries to remember how one talks to a person they are allowed to be more open and honest with – fears he has never known and probably never will. But, looking up into Emma's tear-bright eyes again, he thinks this woman deserves someone who knows, someone who can, and if she is not to have that, she at least deserves for him to try.

"I don't want you to think I'll think less of you because of this."

/

The silence is absolute – even the birds have gone quiet, even the swing has become completely still. She is unaware of this, she is aware of how hard her heart is still beating, how much control it takes to keep her breathing even, how incomprehensible his words are.

Emma has been defined by the word "less" as far back as she can remember. She is a granddaughter but less than a daughter, she is pretty but less than exquisite, she is well-trained but less than well-educated, she was a lover but less than a wife, she was expecting but less than a mother, she is collected but less than dignified, she is inexperienced but less than pure, she was unmarried but less than a good match, she is married but less than a proper wife.

She doesn't really understand how she could've been saved from becoming less in Killian's eyes unless she was already nothing. But it's exactly his eyes that tell her she is not nothing and she finds them almost capable of convincing her.

She drops her gaze to her hands. She cannot bear to shed any more tears – she feels physically and emotionally exhausted, but she cannot bear to appear any weaker. Yet, everything already trembling inside her trembles all the harder at the thought of him leaving in the face of her inadequate silence. Only she doesn't quite know what—

So she reaches for his hands and lays her cold ones over them. The contrast between his warm flesh and the smooth coolness of the leather glove on his prosthetic is curious but the way his left arm seems to flinch makes her breath back into her throat. She waits for a second, two, three, not daring to look up, waiting to see if he will pull away, if after all else, this is the way she manages to push him to his feet and away.

But whatever instinct seized Killian he seems to master and Emma curls her fingers a little more securely before she looks up. She is surprised to see him staring somewhere in the distance, as if recalling something else that will inform him what to do now. But then he shakes his head and looks back at her, his face composed but still watching her as if to make sure parts of her are not falling off.

"Let me bring you something to drink."

She doesn't want anything to drink, she just wants him to stay right where he is, but she is not selfish enough to deny him the opportunity for escape, she is grateful he has delayed it as long as he has, so she just nods quickly and draws her hands back into her lap.

"Something refreshing or—"

"Something warm."

She tries not to think about that as he walks away. How much she needs something to steal comfort from, how cold and empty she felt right _after_ and how frozen and stiff her fingers feel even now. How she hasn't felt truly warm even once in the last ten years.

Emma stares at the sun – it too is slowly starting to take its leave. She expects Ruby – she hopes it's Ruby, she cannot fortify herself enough to face Mrs Lucas right now – to come out with a cup of tea, so it's only when she actually sees Killian returning and feels her shoulders release, that she becomes conscious of how tense she was.

He has the same set up of a pot and two cups hanging from his thumb and the familiarity of it settles her further, just like the smell of the hot chocolate. He crouches down, depositing his cargo on the grass before he sits down on the ground, leaning one shoulder on the swing and looking up at it before he starts pouring the chocolate.

"Do you want to know how long it took to make this?"

Emma blinks, realizes she can now send away the demons she summoned – the fresh air and sunshine seem to have made them shrink just a little.

"You actually made this?" she asks with genuine surprise before she takes the cup he offers her.

"I dare say I was rather good at building things before—" he shrugs his left shoulder and takes a little sip.

"The war?"

"Hmm? Ah. No, no," Killian takes a more generous gulp, his tongue pressing against his utter lip, seemingly lost in thought. "This didn't happen during the war."

"Oh."

She always just assumed that's how he lost his hand and secured his reputation as a daring war hero.

"No, this was… another voyage I took later in life…"

His eyes lose some of their focus, staring unseeingly at the liquid he swirls lightly in his cup.

Emma believes some thoughts have the ability to carry you so far away that you might never come back. She believes one of those had possession of her just minutes ago and Killian Jones managed to bring her back.

She hopes when his own thought comes for him, she manages to do the same.

"So how long did it take?"

/

"Honey, you must be starving. Let me put something out for you. Lord know when they will come in."

Ruby watches Alice smile benevolently at Granny's disgruntled face.

"Oh, let them be. I still believe it is a crime to spend an hour of sunshine inside."

* * *

A/N: Very vague mentions of abortion and possible inability to conceive.


	6. Chapter 6

First of all, my apologies, everyone! I didn't realize my scene/POV breaks weren't showing on - I dunno how you have been reading this without them honestly. I've gone back and fixed it all and will keep an eye out in the future. :*

* * *

It doesn't fully sink in – the relief, the acceptance, the safety – until she is trying to lose herself in the last chapter of the adventure novel she's been making her way through and Killian walks into the library with his ever-present stack of papers.

At this point, she probably shouldn't let anything about Killian Jones shock her and yet, it still takes her a moment to realize and accept that he is obviously not avoiding and shunning her presence. And difficult as it was to focus on her book after the day she's had before, it is nothing compared to trying to interest herself in the letters on the page now that Killian is sitting an arm's length away. Yet the last thing she wants is for him to leave.

She expected his presence to make her feel vulnerable and overly exposed, she expected to walk on eggshells for days despite the way he had guided her back into the house earlier, his jacket and his scent still around her until she went to freshen up for tea. But now Emma thinks she just forgot what it feels like to be around someone who knows you – all the least commendable parts of you – and still talks to you like you are worth something.

She doesn't feel exposed, she feels seen.

And it's only now that she realizes how heavy it weighted on her, how much like an impostor she felt in this house with that secret hanging like a noose ready to tighten around her neck the moment she tripped. Now, she almost feels like herself again and with every hour that passes and Killian doesn't turn around and say that no, this is too much, _too little_, she grows more confident in the knowledge that being herself is not a curse to carry around. That maybe being herself is not the same as being the things that have happened to her.

/

"Gaillardia, buttercups and… maybe something white?"

Mrs Lucas keeps scrubbing her pan without paying her any mind, which in itself is an improvement. Emma has probably been in the kitchen for almost half an hour and the cook has yet to grumble about everyone constantly getting in her way. Everyone being Emma, seeing as Alice only ever breezes through the kitchen – snatching whatever fruit or pastry is available – and continues on her way to the stables or the lake beyond, and Killian – to Emma's continued amazement and amusement – seems to resent any and all assistance from the women in the house when he goes rummaging around the kitchen cupboards.

And it's not like Emma has all these caprices about food or can't do anything herself, she is just still learning the very fine line between being a nuisance and taking too much initiative where Granny is concerned. She is also careful not to call her that out loud, although Ruby and Alice have made it impossible to avoid doing so in her mind.

At present, she has agreed to get Emma the seeds she will need for her little garden project so she allows herself to enjoy that little victory. She is also very aware of the fact that if she kills a single one of those flowers, it will probably take her another decade to convince the cook to let her make any alternations around the property.

"Or something blue? Killian likes blue," she looks down at her short list and tries to keep her ink-stained thumb away from the paper. "Oh, bluestars! Could you find some bluestars?"

Granny huffs and finishes rinsing before she turns around with a towel in her hands.

"If you gonna go putting a flower for everyone, you should ask Miss Alice what she'd like."

"Alice likes buttercups," she says, managing to tamper the smugness in her voice slightly.

Somehow the old woman manages to look both pleased and irritated. Emma grins a little.

"I can get you everything you'll need but I ain't getting down in the dirt with ya. Being up to my elbows in flour suits me better, thank you very much."

/

She sighs heavily as the door closes behind the mistress and all her colourful plans and looks around for something to put her hands to, hoping her mind will follow.

The last few days – ever since the new Mrs Jones walked in with her face a little more pink than normal and her slim shoulders hidden under the heavy fabric of the captain's jacket – Granny has been having some serious trouble keeping her thoughts to herself. Truth be told, she has been having trouble ordering those thoughts to begin with.

She started scrutinizing the new missus the moment she walked into their lives and by now she is fully convinced that the far away looks, pale complexion and occasional listlessness are much more than just natural frailty. She knows a person with a story when she sees one and she supposes that if she'd come across Mrs Jones in any other way, her instincts would've leaned toward the more sympathetic.

Alas, she does not have the time or peace of mind to worry about this new person when she has to worry about all that she might bring with her. And Granny is starting the see it already.

The way Alice is more willing than she has ever known her to be to go shopping for fabrics and ribbons and any other ladylike trifle that she can claim to need Mrs Jones' opinion on. The way she rides with much more patience and discipline than she normally does to make the other woman feel more comfortable – and probably to not shorten her father's life any more than she already has.

And that is a whole other can of worms that Granny feels compelled to twist open. She has seen Captain Killian Jones with the flush of amorous affection on his cheeks only once in her long life – when he had no grey hairs and two hands of flesh and blood and had never heard the name Eloise Gardener.

It is not quite the same now – she thinks there is a certain shade of brilliant, almost blinding blue that she shall never see in Killian's eyes again, but there is something alright. There is the way his eyes jump to the kitchen door every time there is a step heard outside it in the mornings and the way his shoulders drop just a little – just enough for Granny to notice – when it is Ruby bringing in some fresh towels. There is the way he moves just a little less distractedly around the kitchen he is not supposed to be in to begin with when it is _not _Ruby that comes in. There is the way his hair is a little more carefully coiffured and the way some vests she hasn't seen in years find themselves among the laundry. There is the way he moves around the house even when Miss Alice has gone out and the way his study is becoming less and less of an impenetrable fortress.

And Granny cannot possibly set her mind and her heart – both reluctantly joyful at the lightness in her master's step and acutely anxious about the moment it should be taken out of it. Killian himself can scowl at her all he wants and Ruby can roll her eyes and cajole her into giving a chance to this girl that has little to recommend her if one listens to the word on the street. Granny doesn't give much weight to that kind of talk but it doesn't make her worry any less about the power Emma Jones has.

The way she sees it – if she is aware of it, God only knows how she might decide to use it and if she is not, Granny doesn't know if she can trust her slim, pale hands to not fumble and break something with it.

/

She twists a little to the side and purses her lips as she observes the curve of her behind. From this angle, she thinks there has been little alteration in her body but as she turns to face the mirror again, her brows furrow and her hands come up to cup and push up her breasts. This makes the pale grooves running down both globes disappear for a moment but the illusion is broken as soon as she drops her arms to her sides.

Emma doesn't think herself a particularly vain woman. She has never had the means and very briefly had the inclination to pay much attention to her garments and jewels. She has never been particularly skilled in applying powder and colours to her face and she finds it simply unbearable to have someone else do it for her and she always seems to fancy her hair in styles that are the exact opposite of what is in fashion.

But all those things she considers mere accessories and, in lacking them, she takes greater pride in what pleasant effect she can accomplish only through her natural shapes and forms. Indeed, that might be why the little vanity she does seem to possess is solely focused on that very form.

It is a truth known only among women that one of the multitude of reasons for marrying young is so that one can present her natural gifts to their best advantage – meaning, in the bloom of youth, and it is a truth staring at her from the full-length mirror that perhaps her bloom is starting to shrivel up a little.

Emma huffs and snatches her nightclothes from her bed. It matters little what her body looks like as long as there is no one looking at it and at present—

The knock on her door is soft and followed by patient stillness and silence and yet Emma startles and instinctively tugs on her sleeves until they come down to her wrists and, to her detriment, one of them slipping a little off her shoulder. She quickly pulls in back into place.

Ruby already bid her goodnight and, to her knowledge, Alice went to bed almost an hour ago. Her mind on Granny, she starts looking around for a shawl that she can throw on top of her nightgown. But when the thought that there is only one person who is usually awake this late at night comes to the forefront, Emma pauses in her search and taking a measured breath, makes the impulsive decision to open the door as she is.

She can think of no person who would dare to frown and scowl at her for standing in front of her husband barefoot, in nothing but a nightgown and undergarments. Well, perhaps she can think of one – the husband in question.

The flame of Killian's candle fills his wide eyes to the brim as she opens the door. The jaw, on which his beard has started to form and where the white hairs seem to catch every golden flicker, is noticeably slacker than she has ever seen it.

"Emma…"

She calls on every bit of grace, poise and self-control she has ever been taught to keep the satisfied smile from actually breaking across her mouth.

"I… umm," Killian shakes his head once and then his jaw is back in its locked and straight position. "I apologize for disturbing you this late."

"No, that's—" as the moment sharpens and crystalizes around them, she realizes with a guilty start that Killian looks like lack of sleep might have finally caught up to him, like he has been wrestling with a ghost that had a tight grip on his shirt and refused to let go. "Are you alright?"

He blinks and then his features soften a little again – not in shock this time but rather the opposite, in the kind of familiarity that brings one comfort. His smile is tight but not forced.

"Aye, nothing's the matter. It's just that— Well, I've received notice that the man hired to inspect the ships we are— I'm sorry, there is no need to concern you—"

"No, please—" she starts to say that she is little less than starving for some knowledge of his constant occupation, then she thinks that he is unlikely to reveal too much in the doorway to her bedchamber. "Would you come inside?"

Killian visibly hesitates and goes so far as to take a step back which she tries not to let tug her a step forward in turn, but then he looks her right in the eyes and Emma hears her own sharp intake of breath. Whatever it is the candle in his hand illuminates makes him nod subtly and lean forward, waiting for her to move back inside before he follows suit and closes the door quietly behind him.

She is already conscious of the restless movements of her hands and, to stop herself from going as far as pacing up and down the room, she takes a seat on the small settee by the fireplace. The fire, though in no danger of dying, is low enough to provide a purpose for Killian's own nervous movements. So Emma sits and watches him add a couple of logs and wonders if he will sit in the lone chair across or beside her and then proceeds to tell herself that is not a matter of all that much importance.

Yet she can hardly help but find it painfully endearing when instead of rising and taking a seat at all, he just sits in front of the fireplace and stretches one leg in front of him. Killian Jones seems to prefer the ground to most pieces of furniture and Emma bites her lip so she doesn't smile down at him like a besotted fool.

"You were preparing for bed, I'm—"

Whatever her face does proves successful in halting another apology and Emma tries to arrange her features so that they express both patience and expectation in equal measures.

"We have two ships sailing out in a number of days. The man who was appointed to complete the last inspections has taken a bad fall— not on sight, at his own house, I'm informed he is in no danger. But he most certainly won't be able to complete his task. I—" his hand rakes through his hair and he looks toward the door. "I hate to be away for even a day when Alice is here. And I don't want you to feel—"

He doesn't finish but his eyes return to her and it seems to Emma that a number of her organs squeeze inside her at the concern in them before Killian bends his head, focusing on the progress his thumb is making in rubbing the ash out of the edge of the carpet.

"But I'm afraid I have no choice. I cannot in good conscience let two ships full of men sail off without making sure that they will carry them safely back as well."

"Of course."

The moral obligation in his words is heavy but worthy of nothing but respect. Still, some small selfish part of her wants to ask why Admiral Jones can't do this, why every rope pulling the Jones Brothers Company seems to be tied around her husband's waist. But she knows it's not her place to inquire into the workings of his business and, more importantly, doing so will hardly help ease Killian's mind.

"It won't be more than two days. I should be back before—"

She can tell just from the tone of his voice that he has taken her silence as displeasure.

"Killian, it's quite alright. We'll be perfectly fine."

He looks unsure and she doesn't like it one bit. She lightens her tone further and waves her hand in what she hopes is a carefree gesture.

"I'll go with Alice to collect her gown for the ball. I'll make sure to keep her safe from ennui."

Killian nods and it's only as his shoulders visibly loosen that she realizes just how tense he has been from the moment he knocked on her door.

"Good," he nods again, more to himself. "Yes, you'll hardly know I'm gone."

She purses her lips in disagreement but her features soften almost immediately at the guilty look he sends the crackling fireplace.

"Killian, I— I'm sure she'll understand."

He nods again – he knows but it doesn't mean he hates the idea of being away any less.

"I think— That is—" Emma licks her lips, fighting herself every step of the way. "I know very little, of course, but— You're clearly doing the right thing."

She bites lightly on her tongue and forces herself not to avert her eyes from his face, despite how silly she feels. She knows it is not a wife's place to give opinions on how her husband manages his time and affairs. It is most certainly not hers.

But Killian doesn't seem annoyed by the interjection. He seems – miraculously enough – somewhat grateful for it.

"Thank you, love."

Her sigh is soft and satisfied and Emma allows herself a moment to bask in the knowledge that her opinion doesn't seem all that unwanted after all.

"I should let to you go to sleep."

Killian gets to his feet with a groan and, standing quickly as well, brings Emma much closer to him that she anticipated. For his part, he seems to realize anew that she is dressed only in her nightgown and his eyes quickly skirt over her collarbones and away to the fire. Emma is very conscious of the fact that her left sleeve has slipped some way down her shoulder again.

The fire is much too far to account for the slight redness of his face and Emma bites her bottom lip and gives up her battle with besotted foolishness entirely.

Killian gives another brisk nod and is already at the door before she has fully reconciled herself to the fact that he is indeed leaving. That is what she blames the strain in her voice on at least.

"Wait. When are you…"

Killian pauses at the threshold.

"I'll leave after breakfast tomorrow. That is after—"

"Us non-vampires have broken our fast?"

He chuckles and Emma grins a little.

"Indeed. Again, apologies for—"

"You can always knock on my door."

He seems so taken aback that Emma is afraid this time she did say the wrong thing but then he ducks his head and huffs a little almost-laugh and she relaxes again. Killian gives her one more searching look, a nod that she can't quite decipher and then he is gone.

Emma moves forward and her hand hovers over the doorknob for a second before she whirls around and leans against the solid wood. She can't quite get a hold of the feeling fluttering inside her but foolishness doesn't seem to encompass it anymore.

/

The grey clouds gathering above them don't look particularly ominous but Emma would've still steered Alice back toward where their carriage waits. If she knew where that was, of course.

The gardens they are currently traversing seemed like the perfect way to end their day – a walking distance away from the shopping street but far enough to be quiet and spacious and not terribly populated. No one went so far as to glare or whisper on the street but Emma could definitely tell that Mrs and Miss Jones were a subject of at least moderate interest to anyone who thrived on gossip.

Thus, when Alice offered to take Emma to the gardens to gather some inspiration for her new project, she was both touched and more than willing to take a turn somewhere less crowded and dust-covered.

It's as they make a turn and head for the fountain that Emma thinks _should _help her figure out their whereabouts that she spots the first person they've seen along the green alleys. A man that seems rather focused on them as he draws near at a much faster pace than their own. Emma feels Alice's arm stiffen around her own and she looks at her, just about to pose the question when—

"Miss Jones. Enchanting as always."

The man gives a bow much deeper than the occasion calls for, in Emma's opinion, and she runs a critical eye over him. He is young, probably just a couple of years older than Alice, but there is something almost slovenly and shrewd in his bearing. When he straightens and looks right at the girl beside her, Emma decides that she doesn't like him one bit and, what is more important, she is confident Alice gave him no encouragement to approach them just now.

Turning to the side she sees the girl's mouth pressed in a perfectly straight and emotionless line that is so similar to the way Killian prepares himself for facing something unpleasant that Emma has to blink a few times to see anything but the resemblance.

"I was hoping to have the good fortune of our paths crossing again."

His voice is no more pleasant than his appearance and his tone much too familiar for the situation and Alice's complete lack of acknowledgement.

"Alice, have you been properly introduced to this gentleman?" she infuses the last word with as much doubt as her tongue allows.

"I have not."

Emma grits her teeth and looks at the impertinent man before them. She knows she shouldn't engage him in any way, knows Alice has taken the wiser path in ignoring him completely and they should really just walk around him and head home.

"Ah, allow me," he grins widely as if this is just an inconsequential little hurdle that he has to overcome for them. "Mr Osbo—"

"Miss Jones did not express a desire to make your acquaintance."

From the corner of her eye she sees Alice's head whip around to look at her and Emma does her best to not waver and shrink from her own voice – she can't allow the doubt she feels over her choice of action to show on her face. She doesn't want to have to walk around this buffoon, she wants him to move out of their way and never speak to her step-daughter again.

But, unlike Alice, Mr Osbosomething seems completely nonplussed and almost amused.

"Oh, I'm quite confident she—"

The moment his hand rises to lightly touch Alice's arm, she immediately takes a step back as Emma takes one forward, bringing her within striking distance of the odious man.

"If you touch her again, I will cut your hand off."

His response are a solid three steps back which make something almost feral inside Emma rise up to gloat. She can't decide if he is aghast or just about to be sick and she is perfectly satisfied with both. Even the bitter scowl that twists his lips and the spiteful words that come stumbling out of them can't mar her triumph.

"Y-you know what? You can go to hell! I should've known not to bother with the Jones bitches."

She has no great desire to come up with a scalding reply and the coward makes himself scarce before she can do so anyway.

"Are you quite alright?" she turns to Alice and honestly doesn't know if she wants to laugh or cry as the fiery indignation inside her dies down and leaves her with a shiver down her back.

The girl nods and Emma tightens her hold on her arm, most likely for the benefit and reassurance of both of them.

"Who on earth was that insufferable man?"

Alice's unperturbed expression and the little sparkle in her eyes makes her relax a little bit.

"No one. Some gambler looking for a quick match."

"How do you know?"

"I told papa when he approached me unintroduced. I think he asked around and then put the fear of… well, himself into him. He hasn't dared to come up to me again. Until now."

"Likely decided to seize his chance while Killian is away."

"Oh, let's not tell papa when he comes back."

"Alice—"

"Did you see the expression on his face? He will never dare again. I think he is more scared of you than he is of papa now."

Emma feels her cheeks flush a little at the memory of how she conducted herself but that sparkle in Alice's eyes looks more and more like pride and she can't help but grin back at it.

"He did look a bit white, didn't he?"

/

Emma is aware enough of her inner thoughts and feelings to know that Killian's presence is not without its effect on her. She did not, however, believe that his absence for such a short period could affect her. As she stares unseeingly at the page before her, Emma cannot remember ever missing someone before.

Ungrateful as it might make her seem to some, she feels relieved to be away from Regina. She has never been able to miss the parents she never knew, who left her to her grandmother to seek more freedom and fortune abroad. Not even—

No, the way things ended with Neal Cassidy certainly did not lead to her regretting his absence.

"May I?"

But now, she is only too happy to see Alice's blonde head peak around the library door.

"Of course."

In the carriage on their way back, Emma made sure that the incident in the gardens hadn't left any lasting fear in Alice but, watching the girl balance on the very edge of her seat and fiddle nervously with the bracelet around her hand, she now begins to reconsider her assessment.

She doesn't know how she can ease her mind without the solid safety of Killian's presence so she only prays that Alice hasn't looked back on everything and decided that Emma's actions were unbearably undignified.

"Emma, I— I want to tell you something. I… papa said I can, if I wish to."

Emma lets out the breath she was holding hostage and relaxes in the knowledge that whatever prompted Alice to seek her out doesn't have anything to do with the events of the afternoon. Still, the girl's palpable anxiety makes her heart ache a little – she knows more than she would like about the pressure of revealing things that you have been hiding inside for some time.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want—"

"No, I do. I-I want you to understand why I'll be leaving soon after Aunt Elsa's ball."

"Oh."

The ache in her chest morphs into something more personal and increases quickly as she thinks about Killian's reaction.

"Does your father know?"

Alice nods sadly and Emma feels selfishly relieved.

"There is someone. In London."

"Ah," she smiles a little, not particularly surprised by that revelation, given Alice's steady flow of correspondence.

"Yes. And… I know he told you that people here have heard things about me, been told things about me—"

"Alice—"

"That's why I can't— I really— I always want to stay here with him and now I want to stay for you as well but…"

And just like that the vice grip around her heart turns more gentle and Emma feels like she belongs here more than she ever has without Killian in the room.

"But I can't bring her here."

It takes a few beats of the heart that is still trying to adjust itself to Alice's kind words before Emma quite grasps the implication.

"Her?"

Alice keeps her eyes on the burning logs.

"Oh."

Alice ducks her head a little and Emma's hand reaches for hers without thought.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's not— I mean, I don't mind about that— Not that it matters if I—"

"You do not?"

Emma has never considered if she would mind something like this or not, has never been in a situation where she needed to consider it. But, as Alice's familiar blue eyes finally dare to meet hers, there is no doubt inside her.

"Of course not. But it shouldn't matter if anyone minds. Does… does your father—"

"Oh, no, no. He never has. She— My… my mother used it to…"

Emma's eyes widen and her hand tightens around Alice's. That… that witch!

"I know it must look horrible. Like I'm choosing one over the other but here I can never—"

"Alice, you don't have to explain. I… I understand."

The younger woman looks at her as if she almost doesn't dare to believe that Emma _does _understand. So she keeps Alice's hand in hers and her eyes open and unflinching and eventually she sees the last of her apprehension seep away, replaced with a relief that barely seems tangible, let alone stable, a relief that Emma knows will take some time to truly sink in. Much like it did for her.

And as the seconds tick by, Emma realizes how hard it is when you know that the next words spoken can make or break the person sitting beside you and they have to be spoken by you. Because it is not only the acceptance that's needed, it's the life-saving normalcy after, the return to the real world that you need to guide them to.

She really misses Killian.

"If I can speak frankly… it always seemed to me that Storybrooke is much too small to contain you."

It's not as good as a story about getting your leg trapped under a half-finished swing but it gets a chuckle out of Alice so Emma decides there is hope for all of them still.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: First - it has been such an amazing few days for this story, guys! There was a gorgeous manip by spartanguard 😍 and an awesome illustration of Captain Jones by marcella2727 ❤️ - please check them out on Tumblr.  
Second - solid MT for More-than-hands Touching, you've been warned guys ;)

* * *

"Well, that won't do."

Emma looks up from the list she is compiling. Dinner was a somewhat disappointing affair last night, seeing as Killian was supposed to be back – he was supposed to be back the evening before, as a matter of fact – and she kept delaying the meal until it looked like Granny might serve _her_, if she didn't let her set the table already. So now Emma has to come up with a different menu for tonight and not focus on the fact that she feels like she has exhausted all her best ideas over the last two days.

How might Granny choose to punish her, if she makes her roast a turkey again?

She shakes her head and focuses on the girl sitting across from her. Alice seems to have abandoned all attempts at keeping her correspondence from Emma since their conversation in the library and she hopes the girl is reacting to something written in the letter in her hand, rather than becoming frustrated with her father's continued absence.

Emma herself is somewhat less than successful on that account.

"Is everything alright?"

"Papa must bring me the latest Dickens. Robyn has already finished it and, at this rate, I will know all by the time I get my hands on it!"

Emma does her best to hide her smile behind a cough. Anyone who has known Alice for longer than a day can tell that her interest in horses and wild animals far exceeds her interest in books and the beautiful piano in the drawing room – that Emma hasn't dared to touch yet, but nothing seems to exceed her need to know all that everyone else around her does.

"I'm sure he won't forget. You did write it down for him."

If the good-natured tease in her voice is obvious, Alice takes it with a smile and playfully narrowed eyes before she leans her head to the side. The gesture is absolutely identical to the one often seen from her father and Emma feels a little tingle down the back of her neck.

"You really shouldn't tell him you don't want anything or you'll soon need a vanity just for all the jewelry you'll accumulate."

"Oh, I'm sure he won't—"

"But he will."

Emma's eyebrows draw together and she gives Alice a questioning look – her tone is much too weary for the topic of presents, expected or not.

"I— Well, I do not know what it was like later on but… I remember when I was little— because I would be so happy, you see? I'd be so excited when he came back. And my mother… the first thing she always did was demand to know what he had brought her. She would make a terrible row, if he hadn't or… if whatever it was didn't suit her fancy, I suppose, since I can't… can't remember him ever coming back empty-handed."

Emma curls her fingers around the pen in her hand and takes the deep measured breaths she normally uses to calm herself after a nightmare. This one is not her nightmare. The very thought that this is obviously one of the more vivid memories Alice has of her childhood incents her beyond words. Which is for the better since she can't speak ill of her mother in front of her, even if she already knows that she absolutely detests this woman she never met and thankfully, never will.

Emma wouldn't have trusted herself to behave like a lady, if she ever met the previous Mrs Jones.

Frankly, presumptuous as it probably is, she feels a sense of indignation at the very thought that such a woman carried the title before her.

"So he will get you jewels," Alice concludes matter-of-factly. "She was always sufficiently pleased with jewels."

"But I don't want—"

"Oh, I know."

Emma closes her mouth and stares at Alice, surprised by her confident tone and the soft smile on her lips.

"But the sooner you decide what you _do _want, the easier it will be for both of you."

She focuses back on her list and on not reading anything in Alice's statement that is not really there.

/

His thumb slides back and forth over the smooth stone – it's cold and unyielding – both things that she probably imagines herself to be and both things she is not.

"Does the gentleman like this one?"

Killian blinks up at the jeweler and shakes his head. No, the yellow sapphire is captivating but it is not the colour he wants, no matter how hard the salesman tries to pursued him that it is. So he ignores the pursed lips and sour expression on the man's face and lets his eyes roam freely over the displays.

Over the years, Killian has learnt the advantages of compromise but it has never come naturally to him. So, while he should really be heading home soon, if he doesn't want to arrive when everybody has already gone to bed and while he is gradually becoming acquainted with a new kind of exhaustion – one born of the ache in his left forearm that kept him company all night and the other ache that feels a lot like homesickness, Killian can't bring himself to settle for something that doesn't feel right.

It is utterly ridiculous, of course, this supposed homesickness. He used to sail across the world for months on end without even laying eyes on a spot of land, let alone setting foot on it. Let alone coming home. And yes, he feels absolutely wretched wasting any of the time Alice is at home and yes, he worries that he has led Emma astray by underestimating the duration of his trip and thinks – perhaps rather fancifully – that the delay might cause her some worry and yes, it has been almost four full days now – longer than he wished and anticipated his business to take. But none of that justifies this kind of fretting and whining – be it only in his mind. He is not a young lad on his first leave and it does him no credit to think and act like one.

So he grits his teeth and rubs at the spot just under his elbow that sometimes manages to alleviate the pain and continues to patiently slide his eyes over the different gems and metals before him. He will be making his way home soon enough, he just wants to make this last purchase. It takes him by surprise – how much he genuinely _wants _to find something that she will like, something that will suit her.

His eyes catch on a hue that looks almost familiar, set as it is among little white stones rather than black lashes.

"May I see this one?"

The jeweler obliges him and presents the ornament with a flourish that is completely unnecessary – Killian already knows he will be walking out with it.

/

"What is she, looking for buried treasure or something?"

Ruby turns to find the kitchen window wide open and her grandmother leaning out of it, glaring at the spot where Emma is preparing flower beds. Or rather, that seemed to be her idea when she took her gloves and tools and seeds out into the front garden, before she seemed to get lost in an almost hypnotic state of digging.

Ruby passes the old woman the empty glass of water she brought to their mistress and gives her an admonishing look.

"Granny."

"What? She keeps digging like that, there won't be any soil left for her to plant anything in."

"She is worried."

"What is she worried about? I told her yesterday that he is always too optimistic when planning his travels."

Ruby squeezes one eye shut and leans an elbow on the windowsill. She wishes Emma asked her or even Alice about why Captain Jones might be gone longer than anticipated. While Granny isn't wrong – he always relies too much on the belief that everyone will be as quick and punctual and efficient in getting down to business as he is – Ruby is sure that her grandmother probably didn't put too much effort into acknowledging and soothing Emma's feelings.

Admittedly, Mrs Jones can be admirably self-possessed when she truly puts her mind to it, but all one needs to do is catch her in a solitary moment to see the feelings rolling beneath her calm and smooth surface.

She took the first two days of her husband's absence in stride, Ruby will even go so far as to say that she was tentatively excited to prove to herself and everyone else that she could handle the household on her own for a bit. But lunchtime on the third day was as far as that feeling carried her. After that Ruby could almost see the doubt and anxiety sneaking in. Emma did not enjoy being the solitary queen of the house and she enjoyed the idea of being left to it for an undetermined period of time – of Killian being gone for an undermined period of time – even less.

Turning her attention back to the front of the house, Ruby catches her impatiently trying to brush awry blonde strands over her shoulder with the back of her dirt-smeared hand, there are quite a few stains on her purple dress already and a definite air of frustration and lack of peace to all her movements and Ruby wonders if she should ask Peter to fetch Alice.

Miss Jones, being much more familiar with her father's idiosyncrasies and poor time management, and thus, not at all concerned by a day or two's delay, will certainly be able to coax Emma back inside and placate her for some time.

Then she catches sight of the dark shape coming up the road and sighs in relief.

"Ah, thank the Lord, she would've dug us all into a ditch in another day or so."

Ruby ignores her grandmother and keeps her back to her and her grin hidden. There is a detectable trace of satisfaction in Granny's grumbling and Ruby knows that, in all honesty, she has been rather pleased with Emma's discomfiture the last two days.

It's not until Roger's hooves are trampling down the path leading to the main entrance that Emma's head jerks up. Ruby can't see her face – though the absolute stillness that seems to arrest her every muscle is clear enough – but she does have a perfect view of Captain Jones and the way he leans his head to the side, as if trying to determine what on earth his wife is doing in the dirt on the front lawn. His voice is heavy with the miles he has just ridden but it carries easily in the golden, late-afternoon hush.

"You should know – I was a naval captain, not a pirate. And if I were, I certainly wouldn't have buried my treasure in front of the house."

Ruby hears Granny chuckle, probably pleased to have her treasure talk mirrored by Killian himself.

He dismounts with obvious weariness but practiced ease and Ruby is about to head inside as well when she sees Emma get to her feet and almost run to the man before her – her momentum arrested by her body colliding with his, his sudden and forceful exhale audible in the bubble around them, her hand coming up and probably getting dirt in his hair.

Ruby knows she should look away but for a moment she is caught in place by her guilt over the fact that none of them took the proper time and care to provide Emma with the reassurance she obviously needed.

Captain Jones seems equally frozen for a second before his right hand tentatively settles on the shoulder blade of the woman in his arms. His face is partially obscured by falling strands of golden hair but Ruby can swear he leans in to catch the scent on them.

Glancing over her shoulder, she is chastised to see that Granny has gone back inside to provide the couple on the front lawn with some privacy and when she turns to look at them again, there is a foot of space between them and Emma is obviously in the process of realizing that she is covered in a fair amount of dirt.

If gambling was an appropriate pastime for women, Ruby would bet her next wage that the captain doesn't care one bit.

/

As he rides off to find his daughter and Jolly, Emma takes a moment to collect and glare down at her dirt-smeared self. She is distinctly aware that this is not the picture she is meant to present to world and husband alike but her actions currently seem to take precedence to the state of her person in their ability to fluster and embarrass her.

"Idiot," she mutters under her breath as she imagines looking at herself from the side, or maybe just from Killian's perspective, and realizes how childish she must have appeared.

Silly, she has been and continues to be even now – as she gathers her gardening tools and wonders what gown she should change into for dinner – completely ridiculous. But, truthfully, she can't help it and she feels a rare bound of pity for her own self because of that.

Is it her fault that she never had a friend come running to her room as a child? Is it her fault that she never got to welcome a parent when they returned from a journey? Is it her fault that she never received a lover come to pay his respects? Is it her fault that all she's known is people leaving and not once has she seen someone come back?

No, Emma tries to tell herself that none of that is solely her fault and yet, she cannot help but scold herself for reacting so disproportionately to the situation now. That thought is probably what makes her jump back and flush the second she walks in and comes face to face with Granny.

"Give these here," the old woman takes the dirty tools from her hands and shoos her up the stairs. "Go wash yourself and get changed for dinner, I'll fix everything else."

Emma stares at her – a little dumbfounded by the woman's strict but almost indulgent tone.

"Go on then. They'll be back any minute now and I have a mind to feed and put you all to bed early tonight."

Emma feels her face stretch in an uncontrollable grin that doesn't diminish in the least at Granny's eyeroll. The old woman tries to glare but, with Killian back, the high spirits have obviously already permeated the whole house and affected even its crankiest inhabitant.

/

Mrs Lucas's plan proves harder to execute than Emma expects, seeing as there are apparently traditions to be kept after dinner.

For the first time, Emma sees Alice put her foot down and refuse to let her father go into his study. Then again, he doesn't fight her too hard on it. Killian demands to distribute whatever he has brought with him, Alice demands to hear all about Roger's antics during the journey and, naturally, Alice prevails.

And Emma swears under her breath and does her best to dab away the tea she spits out with her laughter as Killian explains in almost ungentlemanly detail the interest Roger took in a passing mare in the middle of the road. He points out that his horse is absolutely unbeatable when it comes to speed and durability and makes better time than any other even with the unexpected detours but, if the way his ears have flushes a little is any indication, expedience has often cost him more than one embarrassing encounter.

"Now," Killian slaps his hand on his tight and reaches for the satchel he left by his chair, drawing out two books. "The latest of the overpraised and overprized Mr Dickens."

"Oh, come now, papa," Alice snatches the books eagerly and passes one to Emma.

She takes it instinctively and lifts her questioning eyes to Killian, who just shrugs and smiles at her.

"You better be prepared, love, she likes to discuss each chapter as she reads and there will be no consideration for whether or not you've fallen behind."

"I only do that when I know you've already read the book!" Alice argues indignantly. "And, anyways, I can write to Robyn, while I wait for Emma to finish it."

Killian's face turns to a stone for a second before he moves his gaze back to Emma's and she does her best not to shrink from the way his eyes probe into her – hard and demanding. It's probably only the slight indignation she feels at this measure of suspicion and the confidence in her own trust-worthiness that makes her stand her ground and stare right back at him until he sighs deeply in what is definitely a combination of acceptance and relief.

"Well, then," he coughs a little and takes a moment to adjust to the new reality of one more shared secret between them and Emma can't help but wonder how many there really are in the room – some swirling freely around now, some still hidden in the private recesses of only one or two of them. "Speaking of Miss Hood."

His hand reaches into his left breast pocket and takes out two poaches – one blue and one red, their quality obvious in the intricate golden patterns on them. He drops the red one in his wooden hand and catching Alice's eye tosses the blue one at her with a practiced movement and a grin.

She catches it the way Emma imagines all children who still remember tossing a ball around with their fathers catch things.

"Is it for her?"

Killian shakes his head.

"I'll leave it to you to procure jewels for your own lady," he tells her with a teasing movement of his eyebrows and Emma can't help feeling extremely glad that she knows enough to be here for this.

Alice pours the contents of the pouch in her palm and Emma smiles at the oblong, childlike shape her lips assume and the roundness of her eyes.

The locket in her hand is indeed a piece of art – the gold glimmers warmly in the firelight, a heart with another heart raised on the left half of it, a beautiful blue stone set in its corner and gorgeous vine-like engravings running along the other side. But it's not until she flicks it open that Alice lets out a choked little sound – the perfect child of a laugh and a sob, and in the next moment she is flying across the room and throwing herself in her father's arms.

Killian seems much better prepared for this attack than he was for Emma's earlier, his left arm tightening around her waist as his hand raises up to cradle her head. When he meets her eyes over his daughter's shoulder, Emma is already wound tight as a spring and ready to look away or even leave the room but the warmth in his eyes keeps her where she is. If he is recalling her own display as well, he does not seem to find the need to shy away from it.

"May I?" Alice asks as she pulls back and, at her father's nod, rushes to Emma's side, handing over her new treasure and swaying a little before her, obviously impatient to receive her praise of it.

And she is not unreasonable in her expectation. Aware as she now is of Alice's constant struggle between her homes and her loves, Emma has a hard time retaining her own composure at the perfect union of the contrasting miniatures inside – Killian's dark hair and hard edges and the blond waves and soft curves of a girl about Alice's age.

"It's gorgeous, sweetheart."

Alice beams at her and, looking at Killian, Emma saves this moment in her mind as the first time she has seen Killian Jones look quite proud of himself. When their eyes meet again he seems to remember the red pouch in his prosthetic.

"Ah, as for this—" he moves to sit a foot away from her on the settee as Alice makes herself comfortable on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"You didn't have to—" she swallows and tries to soften her voice.

It's completely unreasonable of her to be upset with him and she is not, not truly. Only, after what Alice told her, she hoped that Killian won't bring her anything, that he would know _she_ didn't expect him to pay in gems to enter his own home, and now she can't help but feel a little sad and just a little insulted.

"I told you I don't need anything."

At least some of her thoughts must flow through into her tone because Killian draws back and gives her a confused, uncertain sort of look before he bows his head to stare at the small bag in his hand.

"Aye, that you did."

His voice is quiet and strained and sounds like he is conversing with himself rather than her – he sounds almost angry and now Emma feels rotten for tarnishing his return and cooling the warmth in the room in literal seconds.

"I just—" but she can't really explain without betraying Alice's confidence and she doesn't want to sour his mood further by talking about his late wife.

"No, you're quite ri—"

"I'm glad you're back."

His eyes rise sharply and take their time searching hers and Emma doesn't dare look away and make her words seem like a becoming platitude rather than the plain truth.

"I'm glad to be back," he says carefully but his features relax a little and Emma lets the corner of her mouth lift up in reply. "Would you—"

He extends his hand in the space between them, the vibrant red resting on his palm is a tantalizing offering and Emma cannot deny her curiosity. She reaches over tentatively and lets her fingers pull on the golden strings, opening the pretty package, before she turns her own hand palm up and leaves it before his, the tips of their fingers brushing lightly.

Killian manages to appear both amused by her antics and nervous about whatever it is that he has brought her. And all that on top of the exhausted air he has carried about him since he dismounted Roger and the obvious relief of being back in familiar surroundings and the slight mellowness of the bottle of wine they shared over dinner and the way he has been favoring his left side in a way that she has never seen before despite his injury.

Emma cannot imagine being disappointed, no matter what tumbles out of the pouch he tips into her expectant palm. And then she doesn't have to imagine anything.

"Oh."

"Well, I… I thought you couldn't go to your first ball as a married woman without an engagement ring."

She doesn't know if that is perfectly reasonable or perfectly unnecessary but she is most certainly not going to make up her mind right now, seeing as she feels like she is on the very verge of being hypnotized by the object in her hand. A pirate her husband might not be, but how to find treasure he most certainly knows.

The sing is simply stunning – solid gold that manages to look both delicate and eternal, a perfect circle of little white gems which are unmistakably diamonds. But the best part, the part that refuses to let her eyes blink closed is the stone in the middle – she does not even know what it is called, she just knows it's the perfect mixture of blue and green and absolutely mesmerizing.

"If you'd like something else—"

Instinctively her hand closes around the ring and she pulls it toward her chest. Killian huffs out a little laugh and his posture finally seems to relax completely, while Emma flushes at her childish antics and extends her hand toward him again.

"Do you mind?"

His eyes narrow with something much different from displeasure and his tongue swipes over his lower lip as he contemplates her for a moment. Emma raises her eyebrow a little expectantly and he finally picks the ring between two fingers and uses the others to gently nudge her hand over. Despite the late hour, spending the better part of the day on horseback and the fact that her own fingers are habitually cool, his skin is as warm as always. His fingertips are calloused and his palm looks almost twice as large as her own and Emma thinks she has never been so conscious of the power in a man's grip.

This time, unlike their wedding day, when he slips the ring on her left hand, she doesn't watch the motion, she watches his face. Killian, on the other hand, is carefully focused on his task, the new ring clinking lightly against the wedding band on her next finger as he pushes it past the knuckle. It's an almost perfect fit and Emma is about to remark on that when she feels his fingers move beneath hers and his eyes rise up to meet hers.

It seems to take half the evening for her hand to reach his lips and it's only as they press against her flesh that Emma realizes he was probably giving her the time to decide if she wants to pull away. As it is, even if she felt any such inclination, she wouldn't give up the knowledge that the only cold point on Killian Jones appears to be the tip of his nose for anything in the world.

/

She wakes up in the dead of night. The fire in the hearth is down to the last embers and the night outside is starless and Emma stays on her side, burying her face further into her pillow and drawing her knees up, taking those deep, measured breaths that have served her well for years now.

They have brought her back to herself after nightmares featuring all sorts of places and faces and painful moments past and imagined, surely they can help her heart settle down after a little dream of her husband's lips on her own.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: People in this chapter aregoing at it. Our guys... are becoming pros at hand-holding. :D

* * *

"She doesn't paint like anyone I've seen."

Killian snorts – a mix of pride and fond exasperation as clear in the sound as the sky above them.

"Alice doesn't do anything like anyone else."

Granny told them it will be the last truly sunny day of the year. Alice promptly carried her easel and half the blankets in the house on the green grass outside. Emma is supposedly working on the garden, Killian is supposedly going over the accounts from a ship that made port a couple of days ago. In truth, they are lying in the shade, a respectable amount of space between them that Emma has been slowly – and, hopefully, covertly – eradicating as the minutes tick by.

"She has never been one for realistic detail either."

Emma's eyes slant to the side and find Killian looking for something among the branches above them. He has one leg bent at the knee and the other stretched out before him, his prosthetic hand cautioning his head from the bark of the tree he is leaning against, while his right one twirls a fallen leaf round and round. His white shirt and windswept hair give him an additionally carefree and dreamlike quality.

It is quite possibly the most relaxed she has ever seen her husband. She likes it.

"It looks like it's just…," she inclines her head to the side and looks more carefully at the artwork in the making – Alice seemingly completely oblivious to Emma's attempts to put her strong and fluid strokes into words. "Made of light."

She smiles a little and nods to herself. There is hardly a recognizable shape on the canvas but the clusters of light seem to almost shimmer in the autumn sun.

"Hmmm."

Killian is watching her with a temptingly unreadable expression on his face. There is something lively and almost gratified in his gaze but his features are much too soft for her to call it mischief. And Emma has always been curious to a fault but she has found herself growing even more so in the company of her husband.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just that… Nothing is only light or only shadow – each needs the other to exist. So it's just the person looking at it that decides what to perceive, I suppose."

She looks back at the picture. Of course, now she can hardly believe she didn't see it. For the clusters of light to come to life there is a shadowy background to it all. But, long as she stares at it, it doesn't come to the forefront and Emma exhales with a little of both relief and pleased surprise.

"Maybe it's all about the day you look at it."

"The day?"

She feels the blush in the roots of her hair. Emma has never been one for philosophical discussions and ideas – she doesn't have the background and education for it, nor has she ever received invitation or encouragement to participate in such conversations – but the warm light and the scent of Killian's coat rolled up under her head and the way he is quietly, _curiously_, waiting for her to elaborate her point seem to loosen her tongue.

However, none of that makes it much easier for her to put her thoughts into words right away.

"It's just that… yes, here I am seeing light but… I'm sure, on another day, I should've seen little but the darkness trying to consume it."

Killian nods along as if her words make perfect sense and wastes no time in turning them into a proper argument.

"So you don't think the interpretation has so much to do with the character of the observer but rather with their state of mind."

It takes her a beat or two but his questioning look doesn't grow impatient. She nods and, when Killian seems to lose himself in his thoughts, she doesn't know if she feels bad for appearing to disagree and argue with him or rather proud that the statement he proposed does sound sensible and as good an argument as his own.

"I suppose there is a fair bit of truth to that. And it certainly makes it all look much more hopeful," he concludes, his gaze now as intently focused on Alice's work as Emma's is on him.

She decides she doesn't half mind attempting to put her notions into words in front of him.

"Oh, would you stop it? How is a woman to let her brush flow with so much pointed attention weighing it down."

Always willing to gratify his daughter's wishes, Killian just chuckles and languidly rises to his feet. Emma is still debating who she should keep company – and mostly where it will be more appreciated – when his palm appears in her line of sight, palm up.

"How do you feel about giving Buttercup a little exercise, love?"

/

"Everyone is positively buzzing with anticipation."

Admiral Liam Jones looks up from the letter he is composing to admire the satisfaction that sits perfectly on his wife's exquisite features. Anyone who doesn't know Mrs Liam Jones well enough would think her barely interested in the particulars of her own ball but to Admiral Jones her simmering excitement has been clear for days now.

"Your new sister-in-law is quite the ambiguous figure. And thus, a source of great attraction."

"That's one way of putting it."

In all honesty, Liam Jones is still rather perplexed and not entirely convinced of the wisdom of his bother's choice of wife. Then again, it might be the burden of responsibility that makes him weigh every impression and bit of information so carefully, seeing as he was the man who brought the story of Miss Emma to Killian's ears.

Of course, when he did so, his intension was nothing more than to share his confusion and general frustration with the way families go about marrying off their female members these days. He certainly didn't mean to arouse Killian's sympathy for the girl, let alone his affection. And now he still doesn't know how much of that – if any – his brother holds for his new wife and, it just might be, that Admiral Jones is as eager to see Mrs Killian Jones at the ball as any other guest.

But he is, of course, much better at concealing such infantile curiosity.

"And what does our captain have to say about her?"

"Killian and I write about matters of business and leave matters of the heart for the rare evening of rum and cigars."

"Then you believe his marriage to be of the latter's persuasion now? Because I could have sworn it started out as the former."

"And I could have sworn my wife was above common gossip."

"It is hardly gossip when I'm asking my husband about his dear brother. And it is hardly common when said brother has abstained from any engagements of the heart for so long."

"But you know perfectly well how obtuse we gentlemen are on those topics. I should be completely helpless and wait for you to have an interview with the new Mrs Jones and bring me some insight into my brother's household. Seeing as you have forbidden me to pay him a visit."

"Oh, try not to be so melodramatic, Liam. I've forbidden nothing, I merely suggested that we should allow them that period of time that most couple reserve for courtship before the actual nuptials."

"And, as always, I deferred to your wisdom. But I am glad I will get to see some more of my niece. Perhaps you can write to Alice and ask her to stay for a day or two after the dance. It should further promote your scheme of courtship for married ladies and gentlemen."

Elsa's eyeroll makes him smile and reach for her hand, pulling her closer so he can slip his arm around her waist.

"You mustn't expect too much from Killian, my dear. I wouldn't be surprised if it turns out that he has spoken to her half a dozen times in the last month."

"Oh, I have no expectations of your brother. Just the hope that the timidity of that wife of him might have started to wear off by now."

Liam shakes his head and lets his eyes run over the words he wrote one more time even as his hand slips lower to caress his wife's thigh. He marvels at her ability to see into people's souls without exposing any of her own. He himself rarely reveals much but, in consequence, rarely finds much out as well.

But, as is his habit, it is his brother he worries about. For Killian has always been good at reading people but always at the cost of leaving himself open to be read and cheated in turn.

/

"I see you have broken the sole rule my daughter imposed on you."

Emma comes to a stop two steps above him. The curls on either side of her face slowly settle and stop their swaying motion as well. He steels himself and doesn't allow his gaze to slip lower and ascertain whether her breasts – both confined and accentuated by her corset – have seized their own bouncing movements.

Until this moment Killian hadn't seen his wife in a gown quite like this one. It is certainly more fashionable and well-fitted than the one Alice picked for their wedding and much more adorned and flattering than anything she wears during the day, whether she goes into town or sits curled up in a chair in the library all day.

He likes the deep green colour, the way it makes her eyes impossibly brighter and lets her painted lips stand out even more, but frankly, he finds the tightness around her already slim waist and the generous push to her bosom rather unnecessary, and the light rouge on her cheeks feels like cheating, especially since he can tell how cold and pale she is underneath it all.

And even so, he would be the most shameless liar, if he claimed that she doesn't look enchanting – like a forest nymph dressed up for a night of human fun, ready to play havoc on all men's hearts. He will blame that image for the way his mouth has gone a bit dry and for the fact that he finds himself incapable of reassuring her even when he can see that she has taken his jest to heart.

/

Rule? What rule was that? Of course, it stands to reason that she has blundered this already.

Emma hasn't attended a ball in near two years and, as much as she enjoyed bringing Alice pleasure by letting her do her hair and colour her cheeks, she is afraid they should have consulted with someone better informed and more well-versed in the art of ball preparation.

"It's just that you were not supposed to outshine the hostess, I believe."

It takes her an embarrassing amount of time to decipher his comment and find the compliment inside, by which point Killian looks just as uncertain as she feels.

"I merely meant that—"

"Oh, I understand. I— Yes, well… thank you."

He nods and holds his right hand out to her in a gesture that is becoming more and more familiar and Emma takes the last two steps and allows herself the comfort of his rough skin under her soft fingertips. Whether she does that too quickly or whether Killian is a second too late in stepping back is unclear to her but the result is that they are brought much closer to each other than either seems to have intended – so much so that, given the time – since she is sure she has the patience – Emma could count each shot of ginger and thread of white in his beard.

It is just as she decides that she has studied the barely visible indents on his lips long enough and prepares to lift her gaze above them and meet his own to judge if he is entertaining thoughts similar to her own that Ruby rushes into the room.

"Miss Alice says she will be just a minute."

"Miss Alice has no notion of how long a minute lasts," Killian replies immediately, even though his voice is a touch more choked than usual.

Then again, that might well be Emma's imagination at play, her own reflexes seem sluggish and delayed and have left her staring at his profile once again.

"O you of little faith."

This time she manages to react timely and look up the stairs to see Alice in her pretty blue gown, pretending to be mortally wounded by her father's pointed remark.

"One swallow does not a summer make, darling," he shoots back.

Alice waves her hand in a clear dismissal of her usual tardiness and rushes down the stairs – a hurricane of lace and tulle and pearl-white ribbons. She skitters to a stop beside Killian and loops her arm around his free left one, looking up at him expectantly.

"Shall we?"

"By all means."

/

Emma can hardly stop the little gasp that passes her lips as Killian hands her down from their carriage. Admiral Liam Jones's estate bears no small resemblance to a modestly sized castle made of white marble. It fits perfectly with what she has seen of the regal Mrs Liam Jones but, for the life of her, Emma cannot image ever feeling at home in a place like this and she tries not to shudder a little at the sheer vastness of it.

"I imagine you would be rather unwilling to go back now that you've seen the superior Jones household."

Killian's tone is light enough but behind it she can tell that he truly believes she might covet a house as grand and awe-inspiring as the one before them. So Emma seizes the moment when Alice skips impatiently toward the entrance and steps closer to her husband, raising a little on her toes so her mouth ends up just under his ear, her nose barely brushing his warm skin.

"I should like to go back right away if I wasn't afraid of ruining the superior Mrs Jones's ball."

Killian's arm tightens around hers as he leads them after his daughter and Emma would've wondered how her comment might have been received, if it wasn't for the sidelong glance he gives her – it is part genuine surprise and part mock consternation and Emma bites the inside of her cheek and does her best to remain perfectly composed and not enter Admiral Jones's home like a giggling girl on her debutante ball.

Instead she throws herself into expressing her gratitude to Elsa as soon as she makes her way to them.

"I'm certain Captain Jones has been all too candid about my affinity for balls at which I'm not expected to dance but only entertain," Elsa says with an elegantly careless gesture and a benevolent smile as she takes Emma's arm and leads her away. "It is terribly liberating to host your own ball instead of attending others's."

Emma thinks all the expenditure, planning and preparation beforehand might compensate for the supposed freedom of the evening itself but she keeps that to herself and instead takes her time to admire the magical atmosphere and splendor of the ballroom that has been revealed to her. If it wasn't for all the people milling about and surreptitiously stealing glances at her, Emma thinks she might have almost enjoyed this.

"Now, a few people have already expressed their desire to be introduced to the new Mrs Jones," Elsa's voice is almost placating but it doesn't do much for Emma's nerves.

"Oh, I—"

"Not to worry. I shall feed them to you in small doses so you can digest them as easily as possible. But if there is anyone that you wish to meet—"

"Thank you, I doubt— That is I'd rather just…"

She manages to stop herself but her treacherous eyes slip away in search of Killian and Alice without permission. The latter is nowhere to be seen, already lost in the depths of the brilliant ballroom, but her husband is just a few paces away, conversing with his brother.

Looking at them, side by side, Emma can hardly believe she ever thought Admiral Jones equal – let alone superior – to Killian in any way. Then again, she cannot point out the exact features and mannerisms that make the younger brother appear so much more handsome and appealing to her, just that when he laughs a little at some remark of the admiral's she feels the flutter of it all the way in her chest.

"Well, then."

She turns back to Elsa in time to see her putting away whatever expression left the twinkle in her piercing eyes and Emma does her best not to feel like she has been caught doing something wrong. Certainly, it isn't wrong of her to look at her husband and to delight a little in the fact that he is wearing a red vest that stands out among all the white and black of the gentleman all around and which, according to Alice – if put on, means he is actually willing to dance tonight.

/

For all the lightness of her satin slippers, Emma's feet are already starting to ache. Her face feels uncomfortably flushed while the rest of her is familiarly cold and the vibrations and odours of the bodies all around her feel inescapably suffocating. She has forgotten how tiresome and stuffy balls can feel. She also keeps forgetting all names as soon as she has heard them and just prays that Elsa Jones is truly as omnipotent as she appears and won't make the mistake of introducing her to someone twice, for Emma surely won't be able to correct her.

"May I have this dance, Mrs Jones?"

The question – the voice – sends the first pleasant thrill of the evening through her. She looks up into the blue eyes of her husband and exhales in relief – glad for an interaction that doesn't call on her to contract her face into shapes that don't come naturally.

"We would be the most impertinent couple on the dancefloor, if I were to accept."

"Would we now?"

"Indeed. I just refused a Mr Humbert on the pretext that I did not feel like dancing this one and you are being rather peculiar, asking your own wife."

She thinks it is the first time she has referred to herself in that way and that is the source of a second satisfying little thrill.

"And is that the truth?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"That you do not feel like dancing?"

The question is completely matter-of-fact and, for some reason, the way he is looking across the room as they talk irritates some small vanity Emma didn't know she possessed.

"I would dance with _you_."

Her reply has the desired effect and, much to her satisfaction, Killian's attention is now solely her own as he narrows his eyes a little and tries to suppress his smile in the face of her own challenging one.

"Then I suppose we should make our peace with being impertinent."

/

"It never ceases to amaze me how you arrange everything just so."

"Everyone seems pleased, do they not?" Elsa looks around at her guests and lets her satisfaction show in throwing her shoulders back a little more than usual. "Even if your brother is being quite bothersome, paying all that attention to his wife."

"I think you should count it as a victory to have him dancing at all. And, not to make myself into Mrs Jones's champion, but you have been running that girl to exhaustion."

"It is not my fault that her grandmother kept her so out of society that half the town doesn't know her. Not shying away from all the attention is by far the best move now."

Elsa takes few wifely duties as seriously as that of being well-acquainted with all who may have occasion to do business with one's husband and, in the case of the brothers Jones, that includes most of anyone important. But she can almost forgive Emma for the neglect of her social obligations, if just for the way she smiles at Killian every time they come together during their dance.

"Frankly, my dear, knowing what a tree your brother can be, I really didn't expect him to charm her so quickly."

"So you find her charmed?"

"Oh, Liam," she pats her husband's arm and goes to check on how supper is coming along.

/

After seeing Alice twirling joyfully in the middle of the ballroom, answering all of Elsa's demands for her attention and forced pleasantness, conversing with Admiral Jones long enough to gain the impression that his brother may be the only person more prominent in his heart than his wife, and spending a dance in Killian's arms, Emma is more than ready for the evening to be over. If it was, she could label it as a tiring but somewhat successful affair.

Unfortunately, the exquisite supper Elsa is sure to have planned for them is only the half-way mark.

So Mr Booth sees her into the supper-room and promptly takes a seat beside her. His conversation is not particularly unpleasant or disrespectful in an obvious way but Emma's nerves are too tightly strung out already and with every course she finds herself growing more and more uncomfortable with his familiar attitude and cavalier way of speaking to her.

"I'm sure, just like our hostess, you are so very accomplished as to put us all to shame and in awe of you."

"And I can assure you I am not. I neither draw, nor sew particularly well and I'm completely ignorant of all instruments and foreign languages."

"Oh, but surely you've seen and donea great deal."

Emma watches her knuckles stand out sharply where she is clutching her knife and doesn't reply.

"And surely you ride?"

She swallows and forces her eyes back to his, lifting her chin a little higher.

"I do. My husband recently bought me my first horse."

"Your first? Of course, a lady looks her best on a dancefloor and on a horse," his smile is like a freezing little trickle down her spine. "I'm partial to the beasts myself. I believe you know my horse dealer, Mr Cassidy?"

Her stomach turns over and the fork clatters against her plate. She is sure no amount of rouge can bring the colour back to her face.

The presence of this man and all that he is now associated with is enough to keep her every muscle tensed but it is the memory of Neal telling her that the only place she would look better than on his horse is in his bed that steals any response she could have made and Emma bears the last course in silence before she excuses herself and rushes to the cloak-room to gather herself.

That proves to be her biggest mistake of the night. The maid she finds presses in a corner by an overeager valet is just on the right side of too young and uncertain to throw her further into memories that make the cold sweat now collect at the small of her back.

And Emma thinks she could've made it through the rest of the night, if there was anything to look forward to but all she can foresee is Elsa arranging her perfect dances by making Killian accompany some other smiling redhead on the dancefloor and bringing more people for Emma to be agreeable to. But it's the thought of an invitation to dance coming from Booth's leering face that makes up her mind.

Her main worry becomes verbalizing a proper excuse when she finds Killian in conversation with two older gentlemen but whatever expression is painted on her face seems to negate the need for words as he quickly excuses himself and leads her to the side.

"Is something the matter, love?"

She opens her dry mouth but no sound comes out.

"Emma?"

He approaches her the way she has seen people approach dogs that cower away from the slightest movement. If she could scoff, she would, but she is afraid it will turn into a sob before they make it out of the door.

She tenses a little when Killian's hand settles on her arm and he removes it before she can tell herself to relax.

"Do you wish me to find Alice or Elsa?"

She shakes her head quickly and tries to apologize with her eyes as she makes herself ask.

"Can we leave?"

She is not truly worried that he will be angry or upset but she certainly expects some reluctance or confusion, not the ready acceptance on Killian's face.

"Of course. Could you wait for me to make our excuses to Elsa?"

She nods and offers to fetch Alice.

"That won't be necessary. She will be staying with her aunt and uncle for a couple of days."

Minutes later, as Killian helps her into her coat and then into the carriage, Emma feels grateful Alice is not around as she seems to have spent all her smiles and what little warmth she brought with her from home.

Killian settles across from her in the carriage and she tries not to see this as a reproach of any sort. Instead she clasps her hands together, wets her lips and tries to bring some levity into her shaky voice.

"Well, aren't I entertaining? You never know when I will make you rush off in the middle of a ball with half-formed excuses."

In truth, she gave no excuse at all and the outward silliness of her behavior comes to her gradually with every bit of road they cover. Yet, she knows she should've been quite incapable of dancing with the way her hands and legs are still shaking a little and cannot make herself regret whatever actions brought her into the comfort and safety of the carriage and Killian's sole company.

"I assure you, you will never hear me complain about leaving a dance early."

Killian's tone is light as well but his gaze is heavy and intent on her and his hand twitches restlessly on his knee. He seems tense and imposing and a better woman might have wished to spare him the turmoil but Emma just breathes deeply and treasures feeling guarded rather than threatened.

"Emma—"

She wouldn't have minded finding out what he was about to say but as it is, leaving the noise and pressure of the evening behind and finding some measure of peace and comfort by moving clumsily across and sitting beside him is more important to her in that particular moment.

Killian shuffles a little to the side to make space for her and, for a little while, Emma thinks she can settle back into herself by staring out of the window and getting lost in the stars and dark clouds as her hand clutches his own. But the light drizzle that is washing the world outside only makes her more acutely aware of how cold and stark and unforgiving the world can be so she turns around to hide her face in his shoulder instead and, this time, when Killian's arm goes around her, she only leans closer.

She leans into the warmth and scent of him, into the space between his neck and shoulder that feels scorching hot against her cheek, into the safety of his even breathing and his right hand entwined with hers, into the steady beat of his heart against hers and the tenderness of his mouth against the crown of her head.

It takes most of their journey home but Emma feels her own heart settle back securely in her chest as the rocking motion of the roads lull her to sleep and, just before she slips away, she notes with shockingly little surprise that she is warm all over.

She also notes that she is quite possibly in love.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: To bmbbcs4evr and let-it-raines (check out the GORGEOUS edit she did for this ❤) for reccing this story for csficrecmonday on Tumblr and to all of you beautiful people who have been enjoying this slow burn with me - I thank you with this chapter ;)

* * *

He doesn't think he has ever – in all his 40 years on this blasted earth – been so conscious of every single movement he makes – of the nervous fidgeting that overtakes his fingers from time to time, of the way his left elbow will twitch unexpectedly, the way his chest rises and falls with his every breath, the way his leg stiffens when the circulation is completely cut off.

He has never been so conscious of his every movement and he has never tried so hard to suppress it all. He must do well enough because she doesn't stir even once.

When Peter opens the carriage door, Killian still hasn't decided what to do about the woman sleeping in his arms. It seems particularly melodramatic to carry her into the house but the warmth of her hand in his is enough to make him loathe disturbing her fragile comfort. Not to mention the softness of her hair against his skin and the delicate puffs of warm breath that make gooseflesh rise all over the arm she is pressed against. He is very conscious of _not_ paying attention to the way her knee is bend and lying on top of his thigh and obstructing that very crucial circulation.

Perhaps it is for the best that the carriage coming to a stop was apparently enough to rouse her.

"Killian?"

Killian is good with numbers, estimates and predictions but he can't say he ever imagined he'd hear her say his name in that way – sleepy and disorientated, unguarded and completely trusting.

"We're home, love."

"Oh."

She looks over her shoulder and through the open door in no great hurry, her head rolling languidly against his shoulder, and, for a moment, Killian thinks she will just turn back around and go to sleep again. Then Ruby bursts through the front door and he tries to neither laugh, nor groan as Emma scampers to get herself and all her skirts off his lap and out of the carriage.

"Why on earth are you back so early?"

He sees Emma freeze on the spot and quickly gets out as well, trying not to trip over the leg that is still half asleep.

"It would've been much too great a shock to my system to spend so much time in company," he replies smoothly as he places his hand on Emma's back and leads her inside and away from Ruby's displeased scowl and mutterings about "grumpy old sailors".

"Upon my word, you couldn't have had your fill of dancing," she says to Emma and, before Killian can steer her away again, his wife speaks up.

"Oh, no, rest assured, I more than had my fill."

Ruby shakes her head and looks at them like she doesn't know who to be more disappointed in.

"You can retire for the evening, Ruby. We should manage fine on our own?" he looks at Emma with the question and she nods almost imperceptibly but he can see that she will be glad to not have anyone fluttering all over her and pestering her with questions.

Ruby is only too willing to accept his suggestion, after realizing that she will have to wait for Alice's return to learn all the details of the ball.

Soon as she is out of sight, he returns his full attention to his wife, who is looking up the stairs with palpable reluctance and, even though it's quite late and she was asleep just minutes ago, Killian finds himself compelled to offer her some distraction, anything to wipe the uncertainty off her soft features.

"Would you like some hot chocolate?"

When she turns her face toward him, he knows he has succeeded.

/

Even in the sleepy sluggishness of her mind, Emma is aware that falling in love with Killian Jones was not part of anyone's plans for her. Not her own, not his or his family's, certainly not Regina's.

And yet, as she watches him move quietly around the kitchen – jacket and cravat discarded and his hair a bit more of a mess than when they left – and fiddle with the handle of his spoon, while he waits for the milk to heat up, she is also aware that she couldn't have done anything _but_ fall in love with Killian Jones.

"I am sorry," she breaks the late night silence. "I should've been able to… master my emotions."

Killian keeps his silence until the cocoa is ready and he is sitting across from her, sipping at the hot liquid and studying her with the blue depths in his eyes. But the silence doesn't worry her – she finally doesn't feel tense or anxious, she rather appreciates the quiet moment to gather her thoughts before Killian speaks.

"A ball is supposed to be a source of entertainment, or so I am told. There is no sense attending one longer than it brings your pleasure to do so. And I'm glad we did not."

She sighs and sinks into her seat. It's not only this ball though. Emma knows that every woman still in her prime is supposed to be overjoyed at the prospect of attending such an event but—

"It's just that… well, I never saw the point of it. Dancing with people whose acquaintance you've just made. _And_ with all those other people around – watching you like hawks, waiting for you to step out of line. Or on someone's toes."

Killian's lips quirk up at her petulance and there is something calculating in his expression.

"If you were to only dance with people you were already acquainted with, I'm afraid your options would've been limited indeed."

"I don't think I should've minded this time."

He fixes her with one of his searching looks and, for a moment, Emma wonders just how much her face might reveal in the soft glow of the firelight. But then the set of Killian's jaw loses some of its careful neutrality and his eyes sparkle in a way they didn't at the ball.

"Well, if that is the case – and seeing as there is no one here to scold me for it – perhaps I should ask you for a second dance."

Something in her stomach swoops low in a pleasant feeling that she didn't think she could reclaim tonight.

"Perhaps you should."

Her answer seems to both surprise and amuse him and prompt him into pushing out of his chair and putting it to the side, before he urges her up and does the same with hers. The space for dancing is still limited but, as Killian takes her hand and pulls her closer, she doesn't think they will need any elaborate footwork.

They hardly need any at all as he leads her into a simple back and forth that seems much too unpretentious and intimate for any ballroom. She has just come to terms with the fact that they are indeed doing this in the middle of the kitchen when he starts humming under his breath. It's no song she has ever heard and that suits her just fine. Few things that involve Killian Jones are ones she has seen or heard or felt before.

His left arm is stiff at her back at first but, after they've done a couple of circles around the room, he lets it slip more firmly around her and pulls her infinitesimally closer.

Emma takes that as permission to loosen the rigid angle of her own arms and her right hand slowly slides from his shoulder to the hair at the nape of his neck. She marvels at the contrasts that can exist in a single man – with his proper words and constant warmth, his cautious movements and engaging eyes, his calloused fingers and soft hair, his demanding business and welcoming home. With his rough voice and gentle melodies.

Her gaze skirts over his jaw and finds his lips with relief, as if it has been fighting a battle to stay away until now. Emma doesn't think she has ever contemplated a man's features so intently before. Then again, she is sure she has never been as interested in one before. It seems impossible to her, in this little slash of space and time, that she shall ever grow tired of looking at Killian's face. Which is probably for the best, seeing as they did vow till death do them part.

She is starting to understand how people can say those words and mean them.

It's another turn and another length of the kitchen table before she finds the courage she had before setting off for the ball and lifts her eyes, following the lines on his face, until they meet his own.

This time there is no interruption.

Except, before she has even realized that she is rising slightly on her tiptoes and leaning closer, the look on his face arrests her every movement, including the rise and fall of her chest. In that moment she has certainty enough for the both of them and yet, the lack of it in his wide eyes makes something inside her tear a little.

She doesn't know why it should, when he has as well as told her that he married her neither to bed her, nor to fall in love with her. But, when she turns her attention inward, Emma realizes that this new life of hers has made her want things again. Killian Jones chief among them. And, while the thought that he might not want her back stings a little, it cannot diminish the sheer joy of having the will to want again. The hope that wanting might amount to something other than nothing.

"Emma."

She blinks and searches the blue of his eyes and the deep lines around them. He doesn't look quite so uncertain now. He looks like he is willing to be convinced.

The space between them is almost gone already but somehow she manages to close it slowly enough for a few seconds to thick by and for Killian's hand to leave hers onto his shoulder and slide up the curve of her jaw, barely making contact along the way.

Her eyes flutter closed when his have turned eager rather than apprehensive.

It is nothing but her lips against his at first – closed, unmoving, solid, warm.

Emma thought she'd been kissed – once as a child when she barely knew what it meant and then again, a decade ago, when she knew all too well and was a fool to let it happen anyway. She doesn't remember any of those kisses now. She never did remember them in vivid detail but now she knows she shall never be able to recall them again and she smiles into the first kiss she knows she'll never forget.

Killian's mouth moves half a breath away and then closes lightly over her bottom lip and this is even warmer now that she can feel the glide of his lips, his palm on her face, his finger tracing the outline of her ear. There is a happy sound exhaled somewhere between them and she is confident it came from her though she did not know she could make sounds quite like it.

Her hands move with cautious determination until she has his face between her palms, then she angles her head to the side and lets her lips quirk up again at the feel of his cold nose against her cheek.

Killian's hand slips back down, his thumb fitting itself in the dent in her chin as he pulls back a little and she leans forward to make up for it. Her toes ache in her satin slippers from raising her up but the pleased sound he makes – among other things – more than makes up for it.

"Do you always smile so much when you kiss a man, my lady?"

Emma blinks her eyes open to see his own as close as they have ever been, their foreheads brushing lightly.

"It would appear I do."

She tries not to smile, despite the admittance, but he does it for her.

"Good."

Killian pulls back completely but his hand catches one of hers as they reluctantly fall away from his face and somehow she succeeds in reigning in her pout.

"I believe it has gotten rather late."

In seconds they are walking out of the kitchen, down the corridor and up the stairs and Emma has yet to decide what she wants his words to mean. She wants _him_, that much she has decided, the intricacies of how and how soon are a bit more unclear. If he is to lead her into his room, into his bed, right now, she doubts she will deny him. Then again, she wouldn't have denied him that first night either, though she was far from ready for it.

But now – now she thinks Killian will be as concerned with her uncertainty as she was with his minutes ago. And she _is _uncertain. Her fingers tighten around his as they ascend the stairs and she knows she won't be afraid to tell him so.

But then, he stops exactly where he stopped at their wedding night and, for all her uncertainly, she can't help the light pinch of disappointment between her brows. It sits right where Killian's lips land when he leans over.

"Goodnight, love."

They only have the one candle this time but he finds his way in the darkness without trouble.

/

She knocks lightly on the chance that the woman on the other side is still asleep.

"Come in."

Ruby picks her tray off the ground and pushes down on the door handle with her elbow.

"Good morning. You must be famished after all the excitement yesterday."

Emma is sitting up in her bed and has obviously been awake long enough to twist her hair into a messy braid on one side. Her eyes widen comically at the amount of food piled on the tray Ruby places on her lap.

"I was instructed to bring you breakfast in bed."

The maid winks at her mistress before she starts bustling around the room, giving Emma the opportunity to hide her blush.

"Is everyone else up and about then?"

Her voice goes up in the end, obviously aware of the transparency of the question and hoping cheerfulness might compensate for it. Ruby keeps her back to her until she has mastered the silent laughter on her face. She did not afford her husband the same courtesy a few hours ago when he, for reasons unknown and certainly insufficient for Granny, took it upon himself to decide what Mrs Jones should be served for breakfast. Which, in the end, amounted to more or less everything.

Contrary to popular belief, Emma is much more capable of remaining in control when her emotions are running havoc than the captain has ever been. Of course, in Ruby's experience, he doesn't let it happen nearly as often but, when caught unawares, he is truly helpless at saving face. Which is probably the reason why he's chosen to hide his in the nearby hills, just like Emma is hiding hers under the covers.

"Miss Alice is still at Admiral Jones's estate, the captain has taken Roger out for some "much needed exercise" and Granny is ready to discuss the evening's menu when you are."

"Oh."

She puts Emma's slippers away and wishes she could give her a less disappointing answer.

"Well, you can tell her I'll be down as soon as I… manage to make my way through all of this."

Ruby turns around and grins honestly at the picture of Emma's fork circling uncertainly over all the meats and fruits and pastry on her tray.

"Let me fetch your tea. There wasn't any place on the tray for it."

/

For a man who has long renounced a great number of emotions, Killian Jones currently finds himself experiencing a perturbingly… great number of emotions. Roger, as he has from the first time he actually let his master mount him, seems only too well attuned to them and more than willing to channel them into motion. For that Killian is grateful. He is sure he should have worn out both his legs and his mind with literal and figurative pacing if not for the liberating and unceasing change of landscape around him now.

Killian knows he is good for a limited and selected number of things and prudent investments are one of those things. If it were up to his brother to decide on those matters— he shudders at the very idea. So he is the one who settles when, how much and in what the Jones Brothers Company should invest. Speculation is the trade of gamblers but what Killian does is not speculation. Investment is all about numbers and numbers are always what they look like. A 20 is going to be a 20 tomorrow unless you make the necessary calculations and take the necessary actions to turn it into a 60. There are no caveats that can suddenly reveal the 20 on the page to have been a 100 all along.

Now, people aren't like that and investing in people – that is pure speculation. Always. No matter how much information you think you have gathered and no matter how carefully you might have analyzed it a 20 is almost never a 20 when it comes to people. It's usually a 10, a 12, if you are lucky. To get at the real number of a person you have to know what to subtract first. 4 for the family name, 3 for supposed fortune, 1.5 for the clothes and 2.5 for the manners. You have to strip all that away to arrive at the real, raw truth about a person.

Killian is only partially ashamed that his wife was an investment in her own way – partially because she was not an investment made entirely for his sake. He saw the opportunity to save them both a great deal of trouble when Liam first brought her to his attention – save her more than him, to be completely honest. And he did not mind that Emma required no subtractions either – the family name was reluctantly given, the fortune non-existent (rather a small one required for the obtainment of her hand), the manners he was unaware of and, in the end, even the clothes were added later. When he met Emma she was exactly what she appeared to be.

He should've remembered that people are never solid numbers, people are always speculation. Emma is no different. Except in the way that Emma is _more_ than she appears. Nothing was subtracted and then, day in and night out, much was added. Until now he can barely even make his brain view her in that way – numbers, calculations, risks, deductions.

Now it's all impressions and possibilities and surprises and _emotions._

Gods help him, he can't even count them all – the surprises are constant and he thought he'd learnt to take them almost in stride until this last one, the pride is not truly earned and his to feel, the guilt is warranted and to be addressed, the hope is probably worst of all – there are so many unknown variables in it. And that other one—

Gods help him.

/

Dinner is an hour away by the time she hears Roger's hooves against the stones outside and Emma has been going back and forth on being angry with her husband all day. Thinking back on yesterday, she is nothing but grateful for his understanding, for both his firmness and his gentleness, mostly for not being another person that she has to tiptoe around and hide half of herself from.

But then she realizes that her attention has strayed from her reading yet again and she remembers that she has been wondering how to occupy herself for hours because Killian has apparently decided to roam the hills and valleys for the better part of the day rather than do anything at all in her company, and she is back to feeling the anger gather at the back of her throat. Her anger feels rather similar to rejection and disappointment but she tries to contradict these thoughts with memories of last night and then she is back where she started from.

"Captain Jones is getting dressed and dinner will be served in a few minutes."

She turns to see Ruby's head poking into her room and her curt response is mostly the result of poor timing, having circled back to recalling her solitude throughout the day.

"I'm not hungry. If you could excuse me and bring me some tea later, that will be all."

Ruby frowns in confusion and goes to enter the room properly but something in Emma's expression arrests her movement and she just nods and leaves.

/

The knock on her door comes sooner than expected but Emma jumps up quickly, prepared to apologize to Ruby for her shortness earlier, which is why, when she opens the door and finds Killian behind the tea tray, she is caught completely off guard and only slightly reassured by the fact that her quick response seems to have interrupted his own preparation for whatever is to come.

"May I come in?"

His tone and expression tell her that he genuinely doubts if she will let him in and, to Emma's chagrin, that alone starts chipping away at any anger she tried to accumulate throughout the day. She pulls the door open wider and motions him inside.

Evenings in the kitchen have taught her that Killian is meticulous and methodical, especially when it comes to the serving of beverages, and unafraid of prolonged silences, especially when it comes to her, so it takes her completely by surprise when he almost drops the tray on her small table with a clatter and whirls around to face her.

"Emma, I— I must apologize."

His face seems to crack a little and the anguish underneath physically tugs on her heart and with it goes the last of her resentment.

The truth of the matter is that she doesn't know Killian Jones, not completely, not yet. And, while spending time in his company seems like the logical solution to her, maybe that's one of those things she doesn't know – when and how and what parts of himself he is willing to reveal.

"You don't ha—"

"I do. I— Emma, I hope you believe me when I say that taking advantage of you in any shape or form was the furthest thing from my mind when we were wed and I—"

"Wait," now she is pulled forward by her confusion and his distress. "Killian, you have not— You've _never_—"

"You were clearly distraught last night and I should have seen you directly to your rooms, I should've never—"

"That's what you are apologizing for?"

"Of course, I—"

"I don't wish for you to apologize for that," she says sharply, startled and mortified at the way her voice cracks at the end and lifting her chin higher to compensate for it.

Killian seems to hear it nonetheless because his hand reaches for her arm, hesitating just short of making contact. She takes it in her own and moves another step closer, her eyes flickering between his own almost frantically, searching for an explanation.

"You didn't do anything untoward and I… I hope I didn't either..."

His shoulders seem to loosen a little and the next step forward is his.

"No, love, you did not. I just… I didn't want you to think—"

"I didn't. I didn't think there was anything wrong or— Well, except that you seem to prefer spending your time with your horse rather than your wife."

Killian's face screws up comically and she can't quite conceal the unladylike snort.

"Perish the thought. I'll have you know, that's how rumours start."

This time she laughs fully and freely.

"I promise not to make your preferences public knowledge."

"Appreciated," Killian nods solemnly before his eyes soften and his lids drop a bit lower. "And I apologize if you felt neglected. I assure you Roger's personality has nothing on yours. I just didn't think—"

"Truthfully, I think you should stop thinking quite so much."

Both their eyes widen at her frankness before Emma pressed her lips firmly together and squints at him apologetically.

"Sorry."

"No, no, you… you might have a point."

His eyes leave hers for the first time in the last few minutes and focus on the teapot and cups he brought with him. If she has to take a guess, she'll say he is thinking far too hard again.

"Are you sure you don't want something to eat?"

"Later, perhaps."

"Of course. I can make you something. I believe Mrs Lucas hasn't started keeping the kitchen under lock yet but it's certainly only a matter of time."

"Would you have some tea with me?"

/

Truthfully, he is rather tired from pushing Roger and himself to their mutual limit for most of the day. Truthfully, there are a few letters he saw in the morning and left to answer upon his return. Truthfully, he already had a cup of tea, while debating if he should come up here at all. Truthfully, he can't refuse her anything when she is tugging on the end of her horrendously done braid and looking at him with her face so genuine and open.

"If you'd like."

She doesn't reply, just brushes past him and takes the tray, moving to sit before the fireplace where her book is lying on the ground and she seems to have formed a nest of her blankets and pillows.

"You know, if the furniture is not to your satisfaction—"

She looks over her shoulder and arches a bemused eyebrow, while continuing to pour the hot tea into one of the cups – it's rather impressive.

"The furniture is perfectly satisfactory and I didn't expect judgement from a man who sits on the ground any chance he gets."

He shakes his head and finally joins her, snagging one of the pillows.

"Most ladies I know do not share many of my habits."

Emma's eyes sparkle dangerously, she opens her lovely lips and he can literally see the reply on the tip of her tongue but then, for some reason which will probably always remain a mystery to him, she closes her mouth and just hums a little. It is far from acceptance or submission – the way her eyes are boring into his might be one of the most straightforward challenges he has ever been issued. He is just not sure if she is daring him to say something or—

Killian Jones used to think he was a bold man before life saw fit to teach him that even the strongest and bravest thing won't do when caution is called for. He knows the first bold thing he has done in years is marrying the woman before him. The second is reaching for her now.

He would like to take credit for kissing her as well but once again that is mostly her doing.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: some implied alcohol abuse in this one (though non-habitual) and some... sharing. ;)

* * *

Mrs Nolan looks around the parlor as if she is considering buying the house or better yet, as if she expects some spirit or ghoul to jump at her from behind the curtains. This, of course, is highly unlikely, she could make a better case for sea serpents, what with the unconventional sapphire colour of the upholstery, the ship's wheel mounted on one wall and the multiple paintings of the ocean at different stage of unrest. Emma manages to restrain her eyeroll and just shakes her head at her friend's poised suspicion, and invites her to take a seat.

Ruby comes in with the tea and a three-tier tray carrying a plethora of small sandwiches and scones, decorated with fruit and flowers that Emma is not quite clear on whether are meant to be eaten or not.

Granny took one look at Mary Margaret's perfectly stylish hair, marble-white face and reserved expression and returned to the kitchen with a huff, and Emma thinks it will be best for all involved if their eyes don't lock again.

The second Ruby is done pouring the tea and has closed the door behind her, Mary Margaret places her small hand over Emma's and gives her the most entreating and pitying look she has ever seen on her face.

"How are you, Emma?"

She blinks a couple of times and wills away another unbecoming movement of her eyes and reminds herself that Mary cares for her and, since finding out that she is to be a mother, has decided it is her job to protect everyone she knows and loves. She reminds herself that she appreciates Mary's protective nature and nurturing instincts and that she is truly grateful for the distraction of her presence right now. For any distraction from how sad Killian's eyes looked that morning, how much older he seemed from the night before when he sat on her bedroom floor and told her stories about sea creatures and far off beaches for hours, how absent he felt even as he kissed her forehead before walking out.

She shakes her head and tries to smile at her guest.

"I believe I should be the one asking you that."

"Oh."

Mary places her hand on her slightly protruding belly and smiles coyly. She hasn't grown that much in size since Emma last saw her but somehow she looks even softer and more content – a feat she didn't think accomplishable.

"I'm well. I get tired early but I'm full of energy and good humour in the mornings."

"Then you should have come earlier."

"Emma," another squeeze to her hand. "Truly, are you well?"

"I am very well."

"You look… why, you do look well. You look healthier."

Mary can see that her slightly incredulous tone nettles Emma a little and she blushes at the obvious implication that her friend looked less than in perfect health before her wedding.

And yet, looking at the hair flowing down her shoulders and the clear skin around her eyes, she can't help but note that she has never known Emma to look better. There was always some kind of nervous energy about her, a certain way she would sit even – at the very edge of her seat, as if always poised for flight – which is almost entirely absent in the way she holds herself now.

"Thank you."

Emma has shaken off whatever annoyance Mary's assessment of her person might have caused and is now looking at her with some amusement in her light eyes.

"Emma, I hope you know that you can tell me anything. Is— Have you settled in?"

"Oh, yes. You should've come sooner. It is even lovelier when it is warm and sunny. We could have had tea outside."

"And perhaps I might have caught a glimpse of that mysterious husband of yours."

She has taken Emma's request to not judge Captain Jones prematurely to heart but she cannot help the slight archness of her tone. She knows she is Emma's first friend to pay her a visit – in truth, she is Emma's only friend – at least from her old life, she thinks cautiously – and she finds it a touch rude of the gentleman to not even grace her with an introduction.

The way Emma's face falls immediately makes her regret the small jab but, before she can attempt to take it back, Mrs Jones composes herself and replies calmly.

"Alice – his daughter, is leaving in two days. They are spending the day together in town."

"And you?"

"And _I_ was invited along but declined. I've spent a fair amount of time with Alice, I thought she should have some time with her father, just the two of them."

"That's very considerate of you. Are you two… I hope she doesn't see you as an intruder or—"

"Oh, no. Alice is lovely, I— well, I think we get along rather well, as a matter of fact."

Mary can't help but smile at the turn of Emma's head and the pleased, almost proud, little smile on her face.

"I didn't know she was still here."

"Yes, well—" Emma hesitates for a moment, clearly debating if she should express her thoughts or not and Mary gives her an encouraging nod. "I can assure you the notion of Killian not wanting his daughter around couldn't be further from the truth."

"Ah. That is good to know. Then why is she leaving, if I may ask?"

"She has her own life away from Storybrooke at this point but… I think— I hope she will be back soon."

"Do you not wish to be alone with him?"

"What? No, why would you— Mary."

Now Mary Margaret is truly taken aback by the anger in her friend's eyes. In the four years she has known her, she has seen Emma treated unfairly, or downright cruelly, a number of times and yet, she has never seen her angered, has never seen her eyes flashing with warning like they are now.

"I told you he hasn't been anything but kind to me."

"You wrote so, yes. But I needed to hear it from you."

Emma's expression softens a little but her voice remains firm.

"And now you have. It is believing me that seems to give you trouble."

"I'm sorry. I do not know him but I do know you. You have not been given the chances you deserve and you are still young and beautiful and you deserve…"

She trails off, unsure how to explain that she believes Emma deserved much better than being sold off to a reclusive old bachelor without further insulting her husband.

"A chance? Because, Mary, I— I feel like I'm finally being given one."

"Here?"

"Here," she affirms with a nod and a smile that Mary Margaret can't find any falsehood in.

"So you… you are not unhappy?"

"You said I looked better than ever," Emma teases, her smile turning sly.

She takes one of the thumb-sized sandwiches they have yet to touch and pops it in her mouth, in a manner that Mary Margaret would usually scold her for, and leans back on the plush settee with a relaxed air that is as unexpected as it is becoming.

Mary always worried that Emma was one blow away – not from crumbling completely but from detaching herself from life entirely, and she came to the Jones household with a fear in her heart that she should find her friend more rigid and unreachable than ever. She is almost afraid this Emma is some trick, some role she has been convinced to play by Regina or her new husband.

"I am. Happy, I mean," Emma's smile is timid, almost shy, and that's how Mary knows this is no lie. "I think… I'm happy for the first time in a long while and I think it's real for the first time ever."

"Oh."

Mary Margaret blinks at her friend helplessly for a few seconds, trying to readjust her perception of Emma's situation. Then she reaches for both her hands and squeezes them tightly.

"Oh, Emma, I'm so glad to hear it."

"Hush now. Don't… don't ruin it," Emma looks down at their clasped hands. "I feel wretched saying it right now as it is. Killian is so torn up over Alice leaving and—"

"Of course. But at least she is not leaving you in a house of tension and resentment."

"No, I mean – yes, you're right. I just…" Emma sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose in a move that Mary has never seen before from her. "I should have known things were going too well."

"Emma, no. You shouldn't think like that. You deserve good things and, if you are made truly happy here, then I'd say so does your husband," Mary eyes her carefully, considering if it is the right time to ask, but in the end her curiosity wins out. "Was he— I mean, is it… is it good?"

"Is what—" one look at her face seems to tell Emma exactly what she is asking. "Oh."

"I don't want to pry. I just want to be sure that you are not being—"

"We… we haven't… we haven't."

She blinks in confusion again and watches Emma stuff her mouth with two more sandwiches in quick succession. Another interesting change – if Emma ever had any appetite, Mary wasn't there to see it. But right now that's the least interesting thing to her.

"I'm not asking about anything specific just—"

"Mary. We— There hasn't been anything specific. Anything at all."

Mary Margaret leans back in her seat and looks askance at her friend, not ready to believe what she is hearing. Unless—

"Is he— I mean, can't he—"

"No," Emma replies quickly before she blushes and looks away. "I mean I don't know but I don't think so."

"When he was injured in the war—"

"He wasn't injured in the war. That is… his hand, that wasn't— I do not know, alright? But it would not matter if—"

"Emma, of that I can assure you – it will matter."

Emma's spine seems to straighten and she gives her an almost challenging look.

"It will not. I'd still rather have him than..."

"Someone else?"

"Anyone else."

Mary Margaret opens her mouth and snaps it shut in the next second. She expected to find her friend lonely, she feared she might find her mistreated, she was just overjoyed to find her content – happy, instead. Somehow the thought of finding Mrs Emma Jones in love never crossed her mind. And yet here she sits, looking better than ever, as stated.

The silence between them stretches for a cupful of moments, both heavy with meaning and light with relief and tentative hopes, before Emma takes a gulp of her tea.

"It is no matter, I have my own bed chamber and we haven't— That is we've only—"

"Oh, Good Lord. Please tell me you have kissed your husband, Mrs Jones."

"Of course, I have!" She has certainly never seen Emma with a blush that deep and bright. "Recently."

"Why— Did you not wish to? I have not seen the man but…"

Mary smiles at Emma's poor attempt to turn her face away and her assumptions grow stronger with every contortion of the other woman's face.

"You know I accepted the fact that I should be married to someone I've never met but… given the chance, I was glad to come to know him before…"

"Oh, of course, dear. I just didn't think— Well, usually men—"

"Of one thing I can assure you – Captain Jones does few things the "usual" way."

Mary Margaret hums and finally takes a sip of her own teacup as she slowly begins to form a picture of Captain Killian Jones in her head. It is not a bad picture but, if the way Emma is toying with her fingers and her lips keep twitching up are any indication – it's about to only get better.

/

"Tell me to stay."

His hand freezes where it was about to point out a clever detail in the painting they've been contemplating for a couple of minutes. He turns around and fixes his daughter with an almost stern look.

"Darling?"

"Tell me to stay and I will."

"You are already bored of Storybrooke."

"I'm not bored of being home. Being with you."

"But you miss her. You miss your other home."

Alice looks down at the gloves she is crumpling in her hands and bites her bottom lip and, if there is anything Killian wants to see less than his daughter riding away from him, it is his daughter feeling guilty for doing so.

"Alice," he moves forward and pries one of her hands away to cradle it in his larger one. "I understand."

"But I— I will miss you so much."

"And I you, darling. But you will be back soon enough. You'll tire of all the dirty streets and gaudy opera houses."

"I do hate opera."

"That you do. What's all the rage in the city now then?"

"Well… Robin said something about a new playwright who is making a name for himself. But you know she mostly wants someone to keep her company while she practices."

"And you keep saying that you will show me what she has taught you to do with a bow and arrow. Perhaps you can teach Emma, seeing as I'm a hopeless case."

He waves his wooden hand jokingly, his breath backing in his throat the way it always does – even with her, when Alice takes it in her free one.

"Are you happy?"

He blinks at her in honest confusion.

"You know I'm always happiest when you are here."

"But what about while I'm not. When I leave now, do you… Do you think she can make you happy?"

"Alice. It is not— It is never another's job to make you happy," he steps closer and brings their hands up between them. "Even the people we love most cannot always be with us and when they are, we should not burden them with the responsibility of our own happiness."

She looks down and he releases her hand, tipping her chin up so her eyes stay locked with his – blue on achingly familiar blue, and he taps his pointer finger on the heart pendant around her neck.

"The love they have for you, however – that is forever. That is what you lean on when you have to make up your mind and your heart. And then you build your happiness together."

Her eyes swim with tears that he hopes are not entirely sorrowful as she nods resolutely.

"You will always, _always _be part of my happiness, my sweet girl. And I hope I will always be a part of yours."

"Always."

"Good."

"I just… I always hated to leave you with… mother. But now I think— You like Emma, don't you?"

Now it's his turn to lower his head and he chuckles ruefully, his hand reaching to tug a little at his cravat.

"I'm happy you seem to like her, darling."

"I like her all the more because she likes you."

"Alice, you shouldn't presume to know the minds—"

"I know, I know. One should never presume to know another person's mind. Doesn't mean I shouldn't like her for being smart enough to like _you_."

This time his chuckle has a bit more humour in it and he urges his daughter along the hall of the small gallery.

"Whether you like a person or not rarely has much to do with the mind and wisdom of it all."

"Father—"

"But, if it will put your mind at ease," he shoots her a sideways glance to let her know that he feels the information is being wheedled out of him. "Aye, I enjoy Emma's company. And I believe she is not averse to mine. Whether that is smart or not of her remains to be seen."

He sees Alice shake her head from the corner of his eye but her smile is fond and bright and he feels warmth bloom in his chest. Somehow, somewhere along the way, something must have gone right, for his daughter to be such a source of light.

"Come. We'll be late. You know how I hate getting in after the play has begun."

/

"You will look after Jolly."

"I will."

"And you will write to me."

"Of course, I will."

"And you will tell me all the things papa won't."

"I shall not promise that."

Even at this age, Alice's pout is a force of nature and Emma shudders to think what power it might have held when she was a little blonde sprite that wanted to fly out of windows. But then the faux petulance clears and she has never seen eyes as clear and earnest as the ones she has inherited from her father. Alice shuffles closer where they sit on her bed, presumably gathering her luggage, and Emma feels like she is finally going to find their true purpose for being here without Ruby to help. The girl takes one of her hands and squeezes it hard – intimate and imploring, and Emma tries not to let her face fall at the thought of seeing her off in a few hours.

"And you will look after him."

"Always."

/

"Pull yourself together, girl."

Ruby looks up from her apron to glare at her grandmother's back but she wipes away the moisture in the corner of her eye and takes up the rag she abandoned on the table.

"Instead of moping around, go ask the captain if he needs anything before he locks that door for the night. And, for all of our sakes, tell the missus to stay away for one night. Last thing we need is them two falling out now."

"She wouldn't like it."

"I'd say she has disliked enough things in life to know she can't always get her way."

Ruby huffs and smacks down the wet rag next to Granny's elbow, she wipes her hands and walks out, all with a scowl on her face that matches the sullen and irritated feeling in the house.

Some of it disperses when she sees Emma already outside Captain Jones's study but her smile at the reassuring predictableness of them dies down in the face of Emma's own scowl.

"Ma'am, I would advise you—"

"Yes, I have already been told not to disturb."

Before Ruby can conceive of something reassuring or placating, Emma turns on her heel and – perhaps most worrying of all – makes her way toward the staircase, rather than the library. Ruby rushes after her despite her better judgement.

"I know it's not my place but—"

Emma whirls around, her hands crossed in front of her and her jaw locked and Ruby feels her heart twinge painfully at the way she looks caught somewhere between hurt and frustration.

"It's usually just the one night. Then he plunges back into his papers and—"

"'Usually' I'm not here."

Ruby smiles again though it's small and still a little sad – she has always had a soft spot for stubborn ones.

"Yes and, pardon me for saying so, but you haven't been here that long either."

Emma deflates a little under her gaze, even as she keeps her protective stance.

"But I'm here to stay."

"I hope so."

And she does. She thinks Mrs Emma Jones is the best thing to happen to this home since Miss Alice was born and she truly hopes they all get to keep her.

/

Emma groans and flips onto her other side yet again. She is not a silly young girl and she is not going to be kept awake by someone else's obstinacy, be it even her husband's. Still there is a needle of guilt that has slipped neatly between her ribs and pokes her on every breath as she thinks that she has already let herself be cowered from her promise to Alice and from her own determination to not let Killian only come to her when he chooses.

The moon is high in the dark sky and has been hovering there, mocking her, much longer than she is comfortable admitting. She flips again, the bed groaning mournfully under her as she tries to dislodge that blasted needle. That's when she hears the stairs groan almost in the same rhythm.

The very fact that she actually hears Killian going to bed is telling. His steps are unusually heavy and somewhat uneven and Emma feels her ears straining after them as they recede down the hallway without pause. His door doesn't creak but it slams back into its casing without consideration or finesse.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut resolutely, telling herself she should take his example and put this day to an end. She is trying to will herself to sleep when she hears a dull thud from down the hallway. It's probably nothing but with a resigned sigh Emma realizes she doesn't need it to be something, she just needs an excuse.

She pulls a blue woolen shawl over her nightgown and slips her bare feet into a pair of slippers quickly, before she can change her mind, and steps out of her chamber quiet as a shadow, even though she is about to intrude on the only other occupant on the floor. Her knock is just as quiet when she reaches his door and it's no real surprise when it yields no reply. She clenches her fist tighter, her toes curling from the cold and the shiver that runs through her frame gives her the impulse to knock louder.

"Killian?"

She waits a second, two, three, to no avail. She should turn around and go seek some of the warmth left between her sheets but the knowledge that she won't be comfortable again tonight unless she sees him has already taken root inside her.

She knocks again, twice.

"Killian."

Nothing. That's when she actually starts to worry and before she can consider the wisdom and propriety of it, her hand is pushing down on the handle and she has slipped inside his room, her eyes sweeping around with almost childish curiosity.

Unlike her own chambers, the moon seems to have almost no access to Killian's bedroom and she can see little more than dark shapes and deep shadows. Ruby must have made the fire an hour ago and it is steadily dying down but there is enough light for her to make out the colours flickering on the mantle above it. She moves closer, the shapes and hues of stones and shells becoming clear, as well as the grand ship model watching over them.

She turns around slowly, her eyes widening at the frankly enormous canopy bed in the middle of it all. And the man slumped before it.

"Killian?"

She rushes forward and drops down, her knees sounding loud in the quiet stillness of the room. One of her hands grasps his chin and tips it up, the other settles over his heart and she sighs in relief as his chest raises and falls under her palm. Still Killian remains asleep and she guesses he would remain so for the rest of the night, and wake up with a stiff back on his bedroom floor.

Emma gets up and feeds the fire with all the logs piled beside it, making no effort to be quiet about it, but when she comes back to him, Killian is still unconscious to the world. She kneels beside him again and looks him over, trying not to linger. She is thankful that he has already discarded his jacket and cravat. He has also undone a fair number of the buttons on his linen shirt throughout the night, so much so that she can see the black hair shot through with grey under it and it makes her curious. It makes her want to see more so she forces her eyes up and away, trailing over his Adam's apple and the beard that's wilder than usual. His mouth is slightly open, the rum on his breath escaping in little puffs, his eyebrows pulled together in obvious tension.

In the next moment, she feels her fingers unconsciously toying with the next button on his shirt and she snatches them away hastily.

"Come on."

Judging by his reluctance to leave it, Killian seems to think the floor an adequate place to spend the night and even takes the effort to frown and grumble something unintelligible when she slips her arms around him and pulls him up to the foot of the bed. However, once there, the comfort tempts him enough to shuffle around and burrow into the blankets in a way that she finds hard not to smile at. It takes her a few tugs and pushes to get him properly under the covers and, when he buries his face half under one of the plush pillows, she just shakes her head and allows herself to laugh into the darkness.

Later Emma would blame that – the pink of his cheeks and the utter mess that is his hair and the way he seems to try to hide from the world into his huge bed – for the fact that she finds herself unable to turn around and just leave him alone. Surely it is unwise, he is obviously drunk and not completely aware of what he is doing.

The only part she is unclear on is what is more unwise – to leave him alone or to make the decision to stay.

She crawls onto the bed and runs her hand down his shoulder, frowning at the straps and buckles she can feel under the thin material of his shirt. She doubts he sleeps with all of that on but it feels like too much of an intrusion to take it off for him when she has already intruded on his room and is planning on intruding on his bed.

She lifts his head up and onto the pillow, brushing her fingers through his hair and working out the knots, when his eyes flutter open for a brief moment.

"Emma."

His voice is rough and nasally and the word is a little slurred but it is certainly her name and it's enough to make her slip between the covers, rubbing her cold feet against the soft sheets and inching her fingers over the space between them until she feels the edge of his sleeve under her fingertips.

She watches his profile – his face a little more relaxed now, and the regular movement of his chest, and she barely realizes when her lids close and her own breathing evens out.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** 1\. Very slight mentions of Killian/Milah and Killian/Eloise  
2\. Mentions of drug use  
3\. Once again there is a possible trigger in this chapter - nothing graphic, only vague mentions - that is also a bit of a spoiler, so you can check the notes at the end, if you wanna be prepared.  
Otherwise, this is rated a definite **E** for extreme emotions.

* * *

He wakes slowly with dulled senses and the knowledge that he indulged too much the night before. Nothing will get done today, it is the price he has been paying for these short and sporadic benders for years. It's probably for the best. If his body could stand it, he would've been much too tempted to push it to its limits when Alice wasn't around.

Killian swallows on a dry throat and grimaces at the taste in his mouth. Some strong tea to face the day, perhaps some coffee, if they had it. It takes half a dozen blinks for his eyes to open completely and he faces the morning light with indifference. It's later than he has woken in months – ever since Alice came home – but Alice isn't home anymore. He closes his eyes again and shakes his head. Emma is, however, and it is still early enough that she might just be going down to—

The movement on his left makes his heart seize in his chest, his head swivels to the side despite the heaviness and nausea, his vision blurring for a moment before he focuses on the form beside him. With a sharp intake his whole body wakes up and he feels the ache in his head and the ache in his left arm and the ache in his chest and the light weight of her small hand on his stomach. In the next second, he is on his feet, stumbling out of the tangle of blankets and almost falling on his ass, blinking wildly at the sleeping woman in his bed.

He doesn't know how she found herself here. Again. He is not even clear on how he got here. Again. The world blurs a little at the edges and Killian tries to cling to the here and now. But the here and now is not all that reassuring.

It's Emma, he repeats in his mind. Her golden waves are unmistakable, as is the curve of her cheek visible under them, somehow even the almost foreign touch of her hand felt unmistakable. It's Emma, it's Emma, it's Emma.

Emma would never.

Yet, she is in his bed, where he does not remember bringing her, she is in his room, where he has never invited her, and she is in her nightgown and—

He looks down and he would probably sigh in relief at his rumpled but fully dressed state – he would, if there was space for a sigh between the unceasing breaths his chest seems to be consuming at an alarming speed. As grateful as he is for the clothes on his back, he wants little more than to tear them off along with his burning skin. He needs to breathe, he needs to get out of this room that he cannot remember entering, that he cannot remember ever seeing Emma inside.

Why would she—

"Killian?"

/

If she didn't still marvel at these moment of all-encompassing warmth, she would feel almost stifled under the blankets. As it is, she pays them little mind when her half-opened eyes notice and try to focus on the figure standing beside the bed. Her mind is foggy with sleep but her heart is waking up rested and content and she feels her lips start to pull up in a pleased little smile as he turns to face her.

And then she is wide awake in seconds, her heart coming to a sudden halt – immediately on edge as to what might have caused the horror on its beloved's face. It takes him stepping back, his eyes glued to her as if he is seeing her for the first time, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side, his stance rigid and defensive, and his eyes still fixed on her – it takes all that for Emma's heart to realize that it's _her_.

She put that look on his face.

"Killian, I—" she rises to a sitting position, bringing the blanket with her though she is hardly indecent under it and he has seen her so before. "I'm sorry, I—"

The door is left wide open after him, his bare feet slapping against the hallway floor. The burst of cold air makes her shiver and the single wet trail cools on her cheek.

/

Killian stumbles down the stairs and turns into his study, hoping beyond hope that he doesn't run into anyone before he gets inside. He digs out the change of clothes he keeps there, fumbling with his socks and shoes and tearing his shirt off, cursing like the sailor he used to be.

His lip curls a little as he puts his thumb against one of the jarred scars on his left side. He runs it down – armpit to hip and encounters five more along the way. The skin around the straps of his brace is an angry pink and the end of his forearm aches worse than it did after his last journey but he is still grateful that he kept it on during the night, if she spent it with him.

She did. Emma slept in his bed, whether he remembers it or not. It's the non-remembering that makes his eyes sting and his teeth grind against each other and, against all logic, he pulls the buckles tighter around his damaged arm.

His eyes fall on the bottle and glass on the small table before the fireplace, grey with the ashes of the night before. The sound of glass against brick is not satisfying, it makes him flinch and Killian curses his shot nerves and throbbing head and every other part of him.

He picks up the clear decanter but it has less than two mouthfuls of water inside and he resigns himself to the fact that he will have to venture into the kitchen, if he doesn't wish to suffer from dehydration on top of everything else battling for the right to torture him.

/

The bed goes cold laughably fast once he is gone, her body seemingly not enough to retain any of the warmth that was trapped inside. She should get up. She should get up and get out and never set foot inside this room again but she is not yet sure her legs will obey her, if she attempts it.

Eventually, when Killian's door has been gaping open for half an hour, Emma manages to slip her legs onto the cold floor and then into the slippers she finds at the end of the bed. She takes her shawl and shuffles into her own bed chamber.

She doesn't want to be here. She wants to find out where he is, she wants to explain, to apologize, to do whatever she has to to make sure Killian never looks at her like that again. The way she might have looked at him, if he was someone else – if he was a man who bought himself a pretty wife to show off at dinners and balls, if he was a man who bought himself a used wife to abuse any way he liked, if he was a man who dragged his wife in his bed without carrying whether she wanted to be there or not. She was prepared for that before she knew Killian, before she found out that she has choices and freedom.

She supposes he was not prepared for someone to violate his and it makes her feel even more wretched.

So, like she has done for the last half hour – like she should have done last night – she ignores what she wants and gives him the only things she can beside apologies and excuses – time and space. She dresses slowly and methodically, choosing a simple grey dress without ornaments and brushing her hair carefully, letting it flow down her back. When she is done, she sits in front of her mirror a little longer, making sure she can control the trembling of her chin and the twitching of her eyebrows and the tears that seem to lie in wait in the corners of her eyes.

If she believed in anything or anyone, she might have prayed now. Prayed that she hasn't destroyed her happiness the way no one else ever could.

/

He knows it's her. His second order of business, after drinking half a jug of water and pouring the other half over his head, was to tell Peter to take Granny and Ruby to town and have the day to themselves.

So he watches the door open slowly and he breathes deeply and tells himself to sit where he is and try to smile at her – nod, if he can't – and apologize and wave it all off – cite a nightmare or the effects of drink, and tell her all was fine and he does not wish to talk about it.

He tells himself all that and then some but the moment he sees her face it all slips out of his sole hand. Her effort is admirable but he can still see all under her fragile mask – the anxiety and the regret and the guilt and the _questions_.

It makes him jump to his feet and walk out into the biting autumn air before she can even finish uttering his name and if he feels like the biggest fool for fleeing from a woman – from _his wife_, then it is just one more thing for him to feel like a fool about.

/

She thinks she would have let him go. If it wasn't for the fact that she's given him all the time she can find it in herself to stay away. If it wasn't for the flash of guilt on _his_ face that has no place there. If it wasn't for the fact that he stalked outside in his damn shirt sleeves.

/

It doesn't take her long to find him. Truly, if he wanted to run, he should have mounted Roger an hour ago. But there is no point in running from Emma – not when he knows he doesn't really want to stay away and has almost accepted that she does not want him to stay away either. He knows now that he has to tell her and that it will never be any easier to do so, it will never be the right time and, if anything, after all she has entrusted him with, he should have done it already. Come what may.

What comes is her step crunching the leaves that have already yellowed and fallen to the ground. She drags her feet, making more noise than her light built usually will, and he snorts and smiles mirthlessly. It's the way one approaches a scared, wounded animal and, considering the situation, he can't blame her for the caution.

The stone bench is cold under him and he almost regrets purposefully avoiding the swing in the back but it felt much too poetic to go there for this. So the coat that appears in his line of vision before she does is a welcome sight, if a surprising one.

He follows the elegant curve of her arm and passes the hair curling over her shoulder to find an entreating expression. In the pale sunshine, among the dying greenery, with profound sadness and tenderness he cannot deny in her eyes, she looks like the daughter of the sun and moon herself – made of equal parts blazing light and soft shadows.

"Please."

She urges the coat toward him, bringing him out of his daze, and he is grieved to see that she thinks he might refuse it just because she is the one offering. So he takes it, carefully avoiding her white fingers, and shrugs into it with a slight wince, the pain in his arm not quite numbed from the cold.

She stands there as if she has come before a court and he has no words of reassurance and he hates it. He is trying to convince his right hand to release its tight grip on the hard stone under him and reach for her when she moves forward. There is enough space for her on the bench and he steels himself for the nearness of her, focuses on calming his galloping heart so intently that he almost misses her knees bending and settling over the dried leaves. His eyes widen as she sits back on her heels and lifts her gaze to meet his own – more penitent than she has any reason to be, her hand fluttering close to his knee and his hand before she seems to think better of it and lets it drop in her lap.

"Killian, forgive me, I didn't mean— I never should have—"

It's the hitch in her breathing, the way she struggles to take air in for a moment, that breaks through all the rest. He only ever wanted to spare this woman anguish, never to be the cause of it.

He slips forward and lowers his own knees to the ground, holding her gaze until they are on the same lever. The grass and foliage are slightly damp, no cooler than the stone he was sitting on, though certainly cool enough to chill Emma, and he reaches to pull her woolen shawl tighter around her almost on instinct.

This time she doesn't hesitate and her hand grabs onto his and clutches it almost painfully, as if she is trying to physically pass the truth of her words into him.

"It's alright," he hears himself saying and her eyes widen, her head moving back and forth almost frantically.

"It's not. God, it's not. I shouldn't have—"

"Perhaps not. But this had nothing to do with you, Emma. I don't… I didn't think you… I just… Bloody hell," he hangs his head, then tosses it back angrily.

The sky above them is grey. Not the grey of coming rain or the grey of late day but the grey of a world that is shedding its life and preparing for winter. It brings him little peace and no hope so he looks back into her green eyes – bright and alive, and then he looks back at the sky because he is a coward and doesn't want to see the emotions in them transform with his words.

"When you go to war with someone… people say they become like brothers to you but that's not… I've never loved a single one of the men I served with like I love my brother. It's not that. They don't become someone loved, they become you. Their blood mixes with your blood – sometimes literally," he chances a glance at her to make sure he is not going too far but her face is open and unflinching and he feels the responsibility of choosing his words carefully even more acutely because not one will pass by her unnoticed. "They become a part of you. So – much like yourself – you don't love them purely and without judgement, but you cannot deny them."

"And Arthur never failed to ask when he knew he wouldn't be refused," he shakes his head and chuckles darkly – he hasn't seen the man in near 20 years and yet Arthur was probably one of the people who determined how Killian spent those very years. "His first wife ran away with his childhood friend and, after that, I don't think he really knew how to recognize affection or— no, I think he purposefully didn't look for it. But pomp – pomp he liked, and entertainment. And so did his second wife, perhaps even more than he did. Their parties were—"

He cuts off and looks to the side and he can almost see all the bodies – ladies wearing as much jewels as their thin necks could support, the gentlemen trying to balance two glasses and two cigars between their ten fingers – five, if one hand was already around a woman's waist, he can smell those overstuffed and unaired rooms, the wine and whiskey that you could almost taste without drinking it, the clouds of smoke that made it hard to know who you were talking to for a second. Society's jungle, full to the brim.

Killian almost flinches from the light touch to his cheek. Her hand is cold and her eyes fill with regret as she goes to withdraw it, but she is still holding his right hand and he doesn't have another with which to show her that her touch was like always – not unwanted, just unexpected.

"They were popular. Within a certain set. I wasn't… I wasn't truly part of it. Not that I'm trying to..." he grits his teeth and moves on. "Arthur's wife loved making matches and she had plenty to match – a whole group of women that I knew nothing about at the time. I suppose they knew enough about me for one of them to take a fancy to me."

He looks down and recalls the little thrill of manly pride he felt a lifetime ago whenever a woman would seek his acquaintance and favour – whether he sought hers or not.

"But I was already… I'd made promises to Milah and I was—"

His jaw works until he feels her hand applying some pressure against his. He doesn't know if he can tell her. He has barely begun and he—

"You don't have to."

His eyes fly to Emma's and the look on her face makes him want to just drop his head to her lap and hide from this, from everything.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"I do, Emma. You deserve—"

"No," she shakes her head and shuffles closer, her knees fitting between his, trapping the dampness between her skirts and his pants. "I didn't tell you about my past because you deserved to know, even though you did. I told you when I felt that I could and I—"

She lowers her eyes and he marvels at her, at how she can be both so soft and iron strong in her convictions and her every little action.

"I want to know everything there is to know about you, but I don't want you to—"

"I do trust you, love. I do feel like I can and I… I need you to know."

"Even after… after today?"

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, pressing his lips above her brow before he drops his forehead to hers and nudges her to look at him again.

"Especially after today," he takes a moment to gather himself before he goes on. "I'd pledged myself to Milah and I wanted to be faithful to her. I was there on the invitation of a friend, not to meet women. I'd chosen the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

Something flashes in Emma's eyes but he is too damn apprehensive of what he might find, if he observes her too closely, to think about it.

"The booze and the cigars, and the less than gentlemanly conversation I partook in, but the women and opiates I refused."

Her innocent shock puts the first tiny bit of amusement on his face but it doesn't last for long, his eyes straying to the side again.

"I didn't know a lot of things back then. Some I learnt from Arthur later, some I learnt... in stride. Arthur's wife and the woman that became my wife – Eloise Gardner, and their friends were the closest thing to experts Storybrooke and the county had seen in the ways of opiates and the like. When I— When I woke up beside her, I couldn't recall doing more than talking to her over a stiff drink. I wasn't sure… I couldn't rightly accuse a woman I'd obviously… bedded of—"

He swallows roughly and focuses his gaze on her skirt. He can see the green stain the damp grass has left on the dull grey and he pulls his hand away to rub at it as he continues, suppressing the urge to look up and gauge her reaction – the fact that she hasn't scoffed or laughed or left is enough for now.

"Later Arthur revealed that… it was their practice to offer opiates to men they'd set their sights on and, if they were to refuse – which they rarely did I was told, they found other ways to give them the stuff anyway. As you can imagine, no self-respected gentleman, let alone military man, thought to… take an issue with being…"

He exhales on a bitter laugh and slumps back against the bench, feeling as exhausted as if he'd been riding all day to a destination he didn't actually want to reach.

"She told me she was with child a month later," he continues matter-of-factly, his voice cold and detached even to his own ears. "My relationship with Milah was already— It had already taken a toll but I still… I thought I could just pay her off and take the child. She obviously had no means and no desire to raise it. But…"

Selfishly, he takes comfort in the fact that Emma's fingers have woven their way back between his own and he runs his thumb over her soft skin experimentally, testing to see if the motion will bring her back to the present and make her pull away. She doesn't.

"But?" she prompts and he nods, agreeing to tell her as much as he has strength for.

"But I'd heard enough about her by then. I knew she couldn't be trusted, if left to carry the child on her own. I had to… I had to take care of her, if I wanted to take care of my child. It was the only time I kept her away from her friends and took away all her toys – her vials and powders and god knows what that she would have given my daughter if—"

Killian is as shocked as he is horrified by the sound that comes from his throat and only slightly less so at the one he makes when Emma reaches for him, her arms winding around his shoulders and his forehead falling heavily right under her collarbone as he sheds a weight he has been carrying around for half his life.

She smells like lavender and the cold air and her dress is almost as soft as her hand running through his hair and he realizes with unexpected clarity and startling calmness that she will hold his fealty and gratitude in that same hand for the rest of his life.

/

Emma thought she knew what it was like to hate someone. When she was young enough to hold onto every grudge, she thought she hated Regina. When she lay shivering in her empty bed, feeling emptier still, she was certain she hated Neal Cassidy.

Now she knows she has never hated anyone other than Eloise Gardner. She has never wanted to bring someone back from the beyond, just to hurt them with her own hands. But she tries to will the rage and bile away, tries to focus on the man in her arms – the man who is hers now and will never be Eloise's ever again.

She wants to tell him how sorry she is all of this happened to him, how sorry she is that all his plans, his _love_ was derailed, that he had to make all the decisions and sacrifices for his child alone, that he had to marry, to _live_ with that horrid woman. Selfishly, most of all, she wants to tell him how sorry she is her own actions made him relive all of that.

And all her apologies get stuck in her throat – inadequate and useless, so she just tries to hold him even closer, tries to tell him without telling him.

"I'm sorry."

And she thinks the words must have snuck past her lips all the same until she realizes that they came from him and she pulls back as far as she can without letting him go.

"Why would you— Killian, I'm sorry I made you think—"

"You didn't."

She feels his arm run tentatively up and down her back and she is torn between the comfort of it and the horror at the thought that he is the one trying to comfort her right now.

"No man should react that way to finding his beautiful, young wife in his bed—"

"That you did not invite me into."

He shakes his head.

"You are my wife. You shouldn't need at invitation—"

"And yet you have never even entered my room without one."

Killian looks torn between his attempts to excuse her and the irrefutable truth of her statement and Emma smiles sadly as she slips her arms off his shoulders and drops her hands to his knees – unable to sever all contact.

"I can't take it back but I _swear _to you I'll never do anything against your will."

"I know," he says and she takes comfort in the fact that he is the one who takes her hand now. "Emma, I trust you. I want you here. I'm just not sure I can give you everything I should."

/

That's a lie. He knows he can't give her everything he should. Some of it she can surely see for herself – the parts he lacks on the outside, others she can only begin to guess – the intimate parts – his bed and his heart that he hasn't really let a woman in since he said goodbye to Milah.

He feels like an utter fool for not predicting this but he could never imagine that she would actually want to touch those parts of him. He barely believes it even now as he stares into her eyes and feels her hand in his, as she remains before him after all he has revealed to her.

"I don't need anything else. Just—"

She swallows and looks down, slipping each of her fingers between his own as her right hand takes his left one as well.

It's those things – those things she says and does, that make Killian think there are yet other parts of him – unknown, undiscovered, ones only Emma Jones might be capable of uncovering.

/

"I never meant for us to be…"

He shakes his head and she hunches forward instinctively, trying to curl her ribs around her heart for protection, pointless as it might prove.

"And now… now you mean so much."

Her eyes widen – tentatively hopeful, cautiously happy, and she leans forward, questioning, glancing at his lips but not daring to take that little leap so soon after stumbling so hard, not willing to push for more than—

But Killian's smile is finally free of bitterness and anguish, it is knowing and almost teasing and his hand releases hers to slip along her back and Emma can swear he is about to pull her into him, when she feels a shiver pass through her whole body.

He tugs lightly on the ends of her hair and then urges her up, their knees knocking into each other as they get to their feet. Killian's jaw clenches and he lets her go to rub his knuckles over his left arm, her hand instinctively following his example – emboldened when he looks up with surprise but doesn't immediately pull away.

"Perhaps we should have these conversations before a fire and with some tea in the future."

She hums and nods and runs her palm up and down his arm one more time before she turns toward the house, knowing that – as much as she wants to get inside – she can't fully hide her disappointment at the interrupted moment.

"Emma."

She turns around and has only a moment to realizes how close he is before she feels his hand cradling the back of her neck and his mouth is on hers.

This is different than tentative kisses in the glow of the fire. This is as clear as the crisp air around them, as solid as the ground they sat way too long on. His lips wet and warm hers as his hand burns at her neck and she feels her fingers flex in the rough fabric of his coat as she tries to pull him closer. Her exhale turns into a little gasp when she feels the gentle slide of his tongue over her bottom lip and she is only slightly ashamed of the way she chases and tries to capture it. He indulges her and, for a moment that feels frustratingly short, she explores the possibilities of his open mouth and willing tongue. Then he pulls away before coming back once and then again, his lips barely brushing hers until she thinks she might growl at him and bite at his lip to keep him in place.

"Come," he says and leads her toward the back door, his twinkling eyes telling her that he probably knows exactly what she is thinking. "As master of the house, I made the extremely foolish decision of releasing our staff for the day, so I'm taking it upon myself to draw you a bath and you should be so kind as to not tell me, if I do it poorly."

Emma just shakes her head and looks at him, trying to keep her lips from twitching and failing spectacularly.

"What?"

She swallows the first sentence that comes to her lips and smiles tenderly.

"You are a very nice man, Killian Jones."

He opens his mouth and then shuts it abruptly, leaning his head to the side as if he is weighing her statement or judging the sincerity on her face.

"I try," he concedes and Emma feels rather proud of herself for making him do so.

Now just to convince him to take a bath as well and then ransack the pantry with her.

* * *

**A/N:** Vague mentions of non-consensual sex.


	12. Chapter 12

Ruby rushes through the back door, trying to beat the coming rain, and runs right into her grandmother.

"Granny!"

"Hush."

"What's wrong?"

The old woman tosses her hat and shawl to the side without so much as looking back at her. But now Ruby can see what gave her pause – the room before them is an absolute mess – counters and floors covered in patches of flour, which, in the wet spots, have turned into an off-white paste, the table bearing traces of cocoa and sugar with tiny pieces of uncooked dough of some sort stuck to the surface, eggshells, utensils and dishes – the nice ones, Ruby notices and cringes – piled all around the sink.

She looks back at Granny – her scowl puts the approaching thunder outside to shame but there is something anxious in her eyes.

"You know, I've told that man time and again to leave his messes for me to clean up and he has never once done it."

She huffs and walks out of the room and Ruby does the same with a roll of her eyes – here she was laughing at the thunder and lightning a second ago, claiming that nothing could ruin this day after all the good bargains she made at the market and the pretty new brooch that rests above her breast.

She follows Granny as she goes to Captain Jones's study and tries the door and she shares her surprised stare when it turns easily and her uneasy silence when it yields a cool, empty room with the traces of last night's fire still in the hearth.

She follows Granny as she passes through the parlor and the drawing room and she can see the light playing under the library door before it's even open. She is five steps behind and when she catches up her grandmother already has her hands on her hips and her eyebrows furrowed in disapproval but Ruby can see the relief in the loosening of her shoulders and the restless corners of her lips. As she follows her gaze, Ruby claps a hand over her mouth but her laughter is still audible enough to echo in the quiet library.

But Mrs Jones doesn't wake and neither does her husband and after a few moments Ruby looks at her grandmother for guidance, tears of laughter budding up in her eyes, and Granny just shakes her head and finally lets some of her own amusement show.

"How sweet. They tried to commit suicide by sugar," Ruby whispers and delights in the way Granny coughs harshly to hide her chuckle before she motions her to help clean up.

If Emma and Killian's chests weren't rising and falling calmly where they sit on the plush carpet, their backs against the settee and her head on his shoulder, Ruby would've truly worried about their health as she surveys the small table beside them.

They obviously used the biggest pot in the kitchen to make a blasphemous amount of hot chocolate and demolished more than half of whatever the tart she picks up is.

"What's this then? I've never seen you make it," she asks Granny on the way back to the kitchen.

"It's gypsy tart and you're damn right I've never made it. That thing will rot your teeth just by looking at it," the cook shakes her head and tries to find her displeasure somewhere among the disaster they have to clean up. "She is bringing her own tart recipes into my kitchen now."

"Oh, come now," Ruby leaves the cocoa-coated cups in the sink and rolls up her sleeves, giving her grandmother a look over her shoulder. "You've been fretting all day about him sending us away in a fit and you are upset over coming home to _this_?"

Granny huffs and sniffs haughtily but Ruby hears her "suppose it could've been worse".

/

The next day both of them look away from her pointedly raised eyebrow – guiltily, almost shyly, but Granny is not fooled. It is the guilt of children on their faces – penitent because they were caught out of line but not truly regretting crossing it. And, remembering the vile habits of the previous missus, the old woman finds herself dangerously close to tears of relief at this innocent mischief that she encounters now.

Thus, for the time being, she swallows all the teasing remarks that rest lightly on the tip of her tongue and serves a breakfast devoid of sugar and observes with amusement as they content themselves with some fruit. She watches carefully for the rest of the week as well.

She watches as Captain Jones continues to rise early in the morning but, instead of seeking his breakfast in the kitchen, occupies himself in his study – answering letters and doing with numbers those things that only he seems capable of doing – until Mrs Jones makes her way down the stairs and he can join her in the dining room – nonchalant but amicable. She watches as the missus spends her days fluttering around the house – picking up a book for an hour and then setting it down, sitting at the windows to sketch the trees that are getting undressed in the autumn wind and then abandoning her pieces of paper at the most random places, coming to pester her in the kitchen and mulling over tomorrow's meals for an hour, half of which she spends striking up conversation with Ruby or even Peter – until the captain abandons his business in the early evening – sometimes even late afternoon – and her focus is on him and him alone for the rest of the day. She watches as they settle down in his study or the library – the parlor obviously not considered comfortable or intimate enough – over a game of cards or a map of the world that he peppers with stories or even each engrossed in their own book, sharing that drink that has forced her to keep a constant eye on their supply of cocoa and cinnamon.

She watches, with a surprising lack of bitterness, as the young woman makes herself more and more at home at the Jones estate, so far as to move a small table here or a globe there when it doesn't suit her and leave small traces of herself everywhere.

She watches, scarcely daring to acknowledge it, as Killian Jones's eyes take on that impossibly bright shade of blue that she thought all but lost forever as he collects every discarded sketch his wife leaves behind.

/

"Can I ask you something that I probably shouldn't?"

Killian laughs out loud and shuts his book without marking his page. It drives her crazy that he does that, it drives her crazier still when he remembers exactly where he left off three nights later.

"That is an interesting way to preface a query."

Emma shrugs her shoulders without taking her eyes off him, waiting for his reply.

"You can ask me anything, love."

"You work all day long."

There is a long moment of silence in which Emma is torn between congratulating herself and taming the urge to hide her face behind a pillow.

"I'm sorry. I seem to have mislaid the question bit," he says eventually, his voice still amused but his face obviously perplexed.

Emma flushes a little but soldiers on.

"Well, it's just that… it's a big company, isn't it? And you receive so many letters and you have so many books to fill and ships to look after and…" finally her courage fails her and Emma lowers her face a little, squeezing her eyes shut. "I'm sorry. I have no idea what I'm talking about."

"Nothing you've said is wrong, even if it is a bit… broad."

She focuses on the flower pattern of the cushions until Killian's hand breaks into her line of sight and settles over her own.

"But to answer your non-question – aye, I work all day. Does that… bother you?"

She shrugs again helplessly, unwilling to lie to him and at the same time acutely aware of how quickly her selfishness seems to have grown.

"Emma?"

"Do you like it quite so much?" she looks up and tries to find the truth on his face in case he attempts to give her one of those answers that always show that he just hasn't much thought about what he wants or likes.

To his credit, Killian takes the time to mull this over as he tosses his book aside and turns around to face her properly, his arm leaning on the backrest and his left knee bend on the cushions and brushing her own. By now she can read him as easy as ink on a page and this means he thinks the conversation important and is giving it – her – his undivided attention.

"I like it well enough. When I was young I was much too focused on my desire to sail the oceans to think about what I might like to do on land. Then later – when I really threw myself into my work – I suppose it was a distraction… a refuge. Especially after Alice went away."

She nods and moves closer, mimicking his pose so that her fingers brush the hard material of his left hand where it rests on the loveseat's curved back.

"Why, do you feel deprived of my company?"

He raises an eyebrow teasingly and his question is meant in jest but it hits too close to the truth and Emma feels her cheeks warm with a strange mix of self-consciousness and indignation. She doesn't want to make any demands on his time – can tell that he is already trying to give her all of the hours he has at his leisure – but she is also both pained and annoyed when he obviously doesn't realize or believe that she wants to spend as much time with him as possible.

Her face must give some of her thoughts away because Killian's teasing melts into something softer, something almost hesitant before he looks away into the fire. She feels his fingers come to play with the rings on her hand and his eyes turn to watch as they reflect the flames prettily.

"I've been thinking—"

"Of course you have," she can't help but mumble and his gaze shoots up to hers – his eyes laughing once again even as he tries to scowl at her.

"Considering your line of questioning, I thought you might like what I've been thinking," he says archly and Emma bites her lip so she doesn't grin and let him win that easily.

"Let's hear it then," she says, trying to sound as put upon as possible.

"I've been _thinking _that we've neglected a certain marriage tradition."

Emma's eyes widen and she feels her stomach tighten – the old feeling of anxious anticipation has made space for a newfound curiosity that, if she were to examine closely, she might go as far as to define as tentative excitement. Killian's own eyes widen in seconds and she watches in delighted amusement as his blush seems to start in the very tips of his ears.

"I—" he clears his throat and chuckles in embarrassment. "I was referring to the tradition of wedding trips. A honeymoon."

"Oh," the coil of tense excitement shifts but doesn't decipitate and, before she can stop herself, Emma blurts out something she has been consciously keeping to herself. "I've never seen the sea."

All Killian's embarrassment scurries away in the face of his affronted surprise.

"You have never been at sea?"

"I've… I've never seen it at all."

"You've never seen it," he says evenly, as if it's the most preposterous statement ever made.

She huffs and pulls away, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"I—" he stops and she can feels his eyes on her even as she keeps her face slightly turned away, her jaw tight. "Oh, Emma, I'm sorry."

"I don't need you to be sorry for—"

"No, I'm sorry I— It's just… why did you never tell me? I've talked about so many voyages and places, about so many things you see and experience on the water."

Killian moves closer and she doesn't know if it's his desire to make her look at him or if he just forgets himself in trying to bring her back to him, but when he slips his arm around her waist and tugs her closer, she goes willingly.

"That is exactly why I didn't tell you. I didn't wish for you to stop telling me things just because you felt bad for me."

"Oh, love, I wouldn't have stopped."

She shoots him a doubtful look – their faces are just a few inches away but her arms are still stubbornly crossed in front of her until he leans closer and kisses the side of her face.

"I would've told you only the good stories. All the better to tempt you."

She huffs and reaches up to play with one of the ornamented buttons on his vest, trying to discipline her mind to focus only at the temptation in question.

"You don't exactly need to tempt me, you know? I've always wanted to go, just never thought I would."

"You married a naval captain and thought you'd never see the ocean?"

"You could've locked me in the attic for all I knew."

He gives her a droll look but doesn't argue the point.

"And when I didn't lock you in the attic?"

She looks down. They are very nice buttons with rose patterns that she can trace petal by petal.

"You describe it so well, feels like I've already seen it."

"Emma."

"I didn't want to ask."

His hand squeezes lightly at her waist and she looks up into his entreating eyes.

"You can ask me for anything. I can't promise that I will always be able to make it happen but I want you to know you can ask."

She nods, feeling a little drunk on the colour of his eyes and the words that warm her from within.

"Of course, our timing is abysmal and we'll have to wait at least until spring, maybe early summer, but – you on the ocean? I think that is something we can make happen."

She beams at him and slips her hands up to rest on his shoulders.

"Any other hidden wishes, Mrs Jones?"

Her grin grows bigger still.

"I would like to be kissed right now."

"That I can definitely make happen."

/

By the next morning an idea has taken shape in his mind and, with a little luck, his wife will be willing to help him carry it out.

Killian leans his head to the side and takes a minute to admire the woman sitting beside him at the breakfast table. She has a piece of toast in one hand – that she hasn't taken a bite out of long enough that he thinks she has completely forgotten about it – and the pencil that was tucked behind her ear when she joined him in the other – tapping restlessly against the latest list she is compiling. He is not sure what this one is about since it's way too cold now for any work in the garden and too early for the shopping she decides on with Mrs Lucas but he has found that Emma loves having lists, items and tasks that she can cross of.

"How would you like to try your hand at playing hostess sometime next week?"

She looks up, the tapping stops, the toast finally returned to her plate.

"I thought you weren't partial to giving dinners."

"I wouldn't call a dinner a year "partiality". And I do make the occasional exception for my brother and his lovely wife."

"Oh," she is an endearing mix of nervous and enthusiastic. "I'd like that."

"Good," he nods and gives her an encouraging smile. "You can choose the date. I could write, if you prefer."

"No, no. I can do it."

"If you need a second opinion on anything… well, you should probably go to Mrs Lucas. But feel free to come complain to me about it afterwards."

He can't help but feel rather pleased with himself, the way he always does when he manages to make her laugh before the sun has been up too long.

/

"I am impressed," Elsa turns to her with a glimmer in her eye as soon as they hear the study door shut behind the two brothers. "I'd never dare call my brother-in-law carefree but this is certainly the least broody he has ever been in all the years I've known him."

Emma bites her tongue against the immediate reply that boils up inside her – something around the lines of how maybe Elsa doesn't know the first thing about Killian's cares and just how fun he can be _despite _it all, and gives her a tight smile.

"Business must be going well."

"Oh, no, dear," the older woman moves closer and puts a hand on her arm. "Don't be modest. Women can't afford to be modest because nobody will ever give us more credit than we deserve."

Emma blinks a couple of times before she asks her guest if she wants some wine. As she fills two crystal goblets that she always wondered when on earth she might have occasion to use but that seem perfectly suited for the long, pale fingers of Elsa Jones, Emma thinks that this is the kind of schooling that she might have received from Regina – if Regina ever cared to teach her anything.

"Speaking of giving credit where credit is due, your ball truly was exquisite."

"Yes, thank you. I received your card a couple of days after. Very nicely done. I dare say you should be given more opportunity to display your social graces."

Emma takes a seat by the window and looks at the darkening world outside – it looks like it's going to be a clear but starless night.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," she says carefully, not wishing to offend Elsa but anxious to dissuade her from that line of thinking. "In the interest of avoiding modesty, I'll admit that I… I think I can present myself well enough. But I would not wish to do so more often than strictly necessary."

"You feel like you're playing a part."

Emma's eyes snap up to meet the calculating, intelligent blue of Elsa's and she is surprised by the woman's porcelain laugh – perfectly designed like everything else about her.

"That's quite alright, dear, we all do. It's just that most of us enjoy it."

Emma leans her head to the side, unable to quite hide her skepticism.

"You like hiding behind perfunctory words and studied gestures?"

"I suppose I've just never seen it as hiding. Rather as a game that we are still allowed to play, no matter how old we've grown."

"I'm sorry. I don't like playing games with strangers."

"No, it wasn't hard to see that you don't," Elsa sighs and smiles at her and for the first time the turn of her mouth looks genuine and unstudied. "You might turn out to be almost worrisomely well-suited for each other."

Emma feels her cheeks heat up at this and lifts the glass of wine to her lips to give herself an excuse for it but Elsa has turned her attention to the door through which their husbands walked out a few minutes ago.

"I suppose by now you've sensed how this works. Liam is the face, the reputation, the charm of the company."

Yes, she has gathered that Elsa and Liam Jones take care of maintaining all those good connections and relations that provide the brothers Jones with business. And then Killian actually runs that business. She is gratified to see that this is not something Elsa is trying to deny.

"Killian is the brains, of course. He has both the instincts and the intellect for it, or so I've been told. You know how it is with women and business – we only ever get to hear about things, long after they've been decided and accomplished. Or bollocksed completely."

"And that bothers you," Emma concludes with realization in her voice, her picture of Elsa Jones becoming more detailed.

"Oh, not quite so much. Liam is a great man with a great reputation but, as I said, he needs to maintain his charm and present a good face as well. And I've been told mine is one of the very best."

Elsa turns her head a little to the side to present her profile to its best advantage, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes and a faux smolder on her face that makes Emma chuckle.

Oh, she can definitely see it. Between Elsa and Liam there is enough charm and beautiful cunning to lure any ship and its owner into their whirlpool.

"But you are not interested in all that, are you?"

Emma blinks and finds Elsa's eyes focused solely on her now and she feels like she cannot lie, even if she wanted to.

"I…" she looks at her fingers, toying with the rings on her left hand. "I know myself well enough to admit that most of society has left a bitter taste in my mouth."

"And you don't trust people."

"You must allow that few are all that trustworthy."

Elsa laughs and shakes her head.

"I concede."

"I have been married to her for some fifteen years and I've never heard her utter those words," Admiral Liam Jones's voice booms from the doorway, filling the room, as he turns and points an accusatory finger at his brother. "Your wife is a sorceress."

Emma's eyes seek out Killian without waiting for her permission and she finds him leaning in the doorway, his head inclined to one side and his eyes narrowed as he studies her carefully.

"She is enchanting," his almost matter of fact tone does nothing to prevent the tightening in her throat and the flush on her skin. "And she does make a mean gypsy tart."

At that she rolls her eyes.

"Not all things "gypsy" are magic."

Killian pushes away from the doorframe and makes his way to her, offering her his hand as Liam does the same to Elsa. She takes it and when she stands his lips end up right next to her ear.

"No. But I'm starting to think all things Emma might be."

She shoots him a look that she hopes communicates exactly how much of an arse she thinks he is for saying that when they are just about to start dinner with his family.

/

It's a pleasant dinner – Elsa seems to have realized that they neglected to go on a honeymoon long before Killian did and has no qualms about sharing all her ideas with them, while he and Emma just sneak glances at each other and try to keep their mouths in check and let her have her fun; Emma relaxes more and more with each course until she laughs herself to tears over some childhood and naval stories that he would've frankly preferred to not have his brother share with his wife over pudding; Killian is grateful that he manages to take his eyes off her long enough that he doesn't try to spare his wooden hand with a fork like he did a couple of nights ago – for he is sure Liam would not have been as kind as Emma in swallowing her laugher; he only has to remind Liam that he is his _younger _brother twice and Liam only has to remind him that they don't talk business over dinner three times.

But, as it always does, the moment comes when Liam himself turns the conversation in that direction, pursuing a point he always gets on in Elsa or even Alice's presence so he can have the additional support. This time – when his older brother starts talking about hiring someone to keep their books, about how surely Killian wouldn't hate keeping normal, human hours quite so much as he thinks – all eyes covertly take stock of Emma.

But Emma dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin and takes a sip of wine and doesn't say a thing. She just looks steadily at him – not expectant, not beseeching, not accusatory. She looks at him and smiles slightly and, eventually, Killian realizes she will not give him her counsel anywhere but in privacy.

He knew this was coming and he's made up his mind about it some days ago but it's no matter. It doesn't take away from the pleasure of watching Elsa lose control of her perfectly composed expression, hearing Liam mutter "hell has frozen over" under his breath as he grins at him in disbelief. It doesn't take away from the pleasure of knowing that Emma would've stood beside him no matter what his response but that the one he gives makes her eyes crinkle in the corners and shine that much brighter.

/

"I have to give it to you, little brother, you've always had impeccable taste in horses and rum," Liam pats his brother on the back as he finishes the last of his drink and shares a look with his wife across the room, wordlessly agreeing that they should take their leave. "Perhaps now you'll have some more time to indulge in the former as well."

Killian shakes his head and gives him an exasperated look full of fondness and Liam feels his heart grow lighter as he takes him in. He glances again at Elsa saying her goodbyes to Emma but this time his eyes stay on the younger blonde until he sees her look at Killian over his wife's shoulder, something in her face shifting in such an obvious way that he would laugh if he wasn't afraid of scaring either of them off.

He turns back to Killian and waits patiently for his attention to return to him as well. By the time it does, Liam can hear the women's footsteps and moves a bit closer so only his brother can hear him.

"She wants to make you happy, Killian. Let her."

/

"Should I tell Ruby to stoke up the fire in the library?"

Killian looks up from the papers he took out for Liam earlier to see Emma in the doorway, one hand hiding a yawn, while the other is already pulling the pins out of her hair. He likes that she feels comfortable enough to do this outside of her bedroom, as much as Elsa or Mrs Lucas would probably glare if they saw her. She looks rather tired but pleased with herself and he drops the last two sheets carelessly in the closest drawer before he takes the candle on his desk and moves closer.

"I thought I'd retire for the night actually. Aren't you tired?"

"A bit."

He hands her the candle and takes her hand and pulls her out and down the hallway and up the stairs and when they reach her door, he slows his step but doesn't let her go. It's a fraction of a moment – the time that it takes them to take two steps pass her door, her eyes on his face, her hand squeezing his.

He releases her to open the door to his room and gives her a little nod when she hesitates in the doorway. Then he goes to the window, looks out at the lonely half moon rather than at his wife with her hair half undone and her breasts rising and falling a bit faster than normal in her pretty golden dress and tries to keep his own breathing and heartbeat measured.

"Oh."

He twirls around and sees her standing by his bed and he is almost afraid to ask – a hundred different doubts that can easily be hers coming to him.

"What is it?"

"I… umm, I'll need… my nightgown."

He manages not to laugh in relief.

"Of course."

She leaves and comes back in seconds, studying his face as she enters, and he feels his heart constrict a little at the thought that she rushed to make sure he won't change his mind. He doesn't.

When she wordlessly turns around, he undoes the laces on her back with some difficulty and just a few curse words that – if she is scandalized by, she doesn't let on. Then he crosses the room and changes with his back to her and he doesn't have to look to know she does the same. They operate almost as if the other is not there except, he realizes, they both make as little noise as possible until Emma speaks up.

"Would you check if there are any left?"

Her voice is light and devoid of any hesitation and, when he turns around, he knows she didn't really realize she was breaking their self-imposed silence. She is standing in front of his mirror and turning this way and that, desperately trying to see the back of her head without the help of another mirror. Her long blonde hair is falling in tangled locks down her back and her nightgown is white with the lace at the bottom barely brushing her ankles and the left sleeve hanging precariously onto her shoulder.

Killian swallows heavily and wonders why her skin looks even softer in the light of his room than it did when he saw her like this in her own. He could barely make himself look away then and he certainly can't make himself look away now.

She huffs and looks at him, her look both expectant and exasperated and he shakes himself out of his stupor and moves closer.

"Just… see if I've forgotten any, please? I always do and they torture me through the night."

"Well, we can't have that now or you might decide to take it out on me in your sleep."

She opens her mouth to reply but snaps it closed when he puts his fingers just above her ear and then slowly slips them into her hair. He can feel her surprise but she doesn't say a thing as he runs his fingers over her scalp and through the strands of her hair, untangling them where he can, trying not to pull too hard and focus on the way she leans back and not on the fact that he could use another hand to comb her hair properly.

He finds two pins she missed and smiles in bewilderment at the immense satisfaction and gratitude on her face.

"Which side do you sleep on?" she asks as she deposits the pins on the table in the corner and moves toward the bed.

"Left," he replies truthfully and immediately curses in his head.

Having put her on his left, makes his last dilemma of the night all the more difficult. He glances at the wooden hand at the end of his arm and nervously licks his dry lips. While he was glad to have kept it on the last time she was in his bed, he does not relish the memory of how sore his whole arm felt the day after.

"Killian?"

"Aye."

He looks up to find her sitting in his bed, her knees drawn up to her chest and her chin resting on them. He wonders how she can look so pure after everyone has tried so hard to smear her. She looks at him and he wonders when and why she will look away. He hopes she will eventually look back.

In the end, he realizes she is not going to be here just for a night and there is no use selling her lies or half-truths or any other pretense. He takes a deep breath and turns a little to the side, pulling his shirt off one shoulder so he can work on the buckles on his forearm. His fingers move quickly and don't tremble and that's all he can really ask for. He pulls the prosthetic from under his sleeve and makes sure the fabric falls past his forearm before he moves forward and sets the contraption on his nightstand.

His heart skips the beat in which he hears her move and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before he looks. She has slid under the covers and come to lie on her side, her eyes are on him and her lips are turned up in a sleepy smile that tells him she is already less awake than asleep. He sighs and smiles back, lifting the heavy blankets and slipping under them, leaving a couple of feet between them.

Emma moves as soon as he is lying down, more conscious than he would have expected, and she stops only when her lips are a breath away from his. He can feel the presence of her body right next to his even though no part of her is touching him in any way. He tips his head so the tip of his nose touches hers and that seems to be enough to make her press her mouth to his – chaste and sweet, the remnant of their good wine on her lips. Before he can decide if he should deepen the kiss, she pulls away and ducks her head. He feels the warm press of her lips against his left shoulder and then she shuffles back, restoring the small space between them.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, love."

Her eyes close and her breathing evens out before his mind can come up with anything to worry about.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to start earning out M rating.

* * *

Wakefulness comes to her gradually, rhythmically, like riding towards the sun on Buttercup's back. The first thing that crosses her mind is that she has no memory of dreaming or waking through the night, she feels the calmness of a good rest in her very bones and the warmth of another body beside her – both so foreign that she would feel disoriented, if everything around and inside her didn't feel so peaceful.

Emma blinks her eyes open and sighs – relief and contentment, when she sees Killian still asleep beside her. Logically, she knows she has nothing to worry about – he brought her here, he helped her get ready for bed, he laid down beside her and kisses her back and wished her goodnight. She knows all this and yet, waking up in his bed, with him next to her, with his face so close she imagines she can almost feel his breath, with their legs pressed together under the covers – she feels herself sink deeper into the mattress and into her life, settle that last bit further into being Killian Jones's wife.

It is a truth like any other that she has felt and seen precious little affection in her life. Regina had none for her or anyone else, only the barest tolerance and occasional prize for Zelena. Neal was all about _doing_ and much less about feeling, all about satisfaction that Emma now knows she was never even meant to take any part in. Mary Margaret and Mr Nolan are probably the most affectionate people she knows but in public even they hardly exchange more than quick glances and smiles that seem to hold a bit more than the ones they have for her. Admiral and Mrs Jones seem to have an almost otherworldly connection and ability to read each other's moods and minds but Emma can't help but think that they are both much too cool and collected and aware of themselves to display any unguarded emotion without special occasion and sacred privacy.

It's hard to crave something that you barely know exists and yet, it seems to her that she has done little else in her life. A pursuit that seemed hopeless and naïve until Killian Jones first put his arms around her.

In the early morning light, he looks like some of the weight of the world has been taken off his shoulders, the line between his eyebrows is shallow and there are no circles under his eyes, just the spiderweb thin lines around them that make her think of summer sunshine that makes you squint, the little scar she has yet to ask him about is more visible, his lips are slightly parted and bright pink and his beard has grown in flashes of black and grey and copper. Her hand hovers millimeters from his face but she doesn't wish to disturb him and instead sets it slowly, lightly, over his heart.

For the longest time, it seemed almost mythical to her. Affection. Physical contact. Having someone you are able – allowed, to just go up to and embrace, to take their hand whenever you pleased or kiss them for no reason. Emma supposes people learn that like animals – from siblings and parents, but she didn't. She didn't have any friends when she was young and such affection would've been permitted, and for all her soft hands and tender looks, she has never felt the impulse to embrace Mary Margaret when she was feeling cold and alone and forgotten.

So, even as she looks at her small hand against the white material of Killian's shirt, she is not fully convinced this is something she has, something that is really hers now – someone she is not afraid to reach out and touch. But then, she can still remember the feel of his fingers moving through her hair, grazing the shell of her ear and the back of her neck and making her call up every bit of self-possession she had to stay upright and unmoving.

She feels the almost unconscious desire to slip her legs between his own and move closer, as close as humanly possible, but she reigns those urges in and just spreads her fingers wide and marvels at the way her hand rises and falls with his breathing.

It's probably just minutes later when she sees his eyes flutter and she almost regrets it, knows she could've stayed like this all day and just sunk back into the night again.

But then Killian is looking at her with sleep still weighing his eyelids, eyelashes tangled and a momentary question in his eyes followed by a deep hum and a resounding calmness, so far removed from the shock and panic of weeks ago that now Emma cannot possibly stop herself from shuffling closer.

He reaches for her and tugs the sleeve of her nightgown back into place, his thumb running in an easy caress over her shoulder as he leans closer and presses his lips above her eyebrow – soft and only semi-conscious

When he pulls back and smiles tenderly at her, Emma can swear she is fully awake – just not fully aware of the tangibility of this moment, she can swear her mind is clear despite the bright, hypnotic blue of his eyes – just cocooned in warmth and contentment and feeling much too safe, she can swear she means to say good morning – it just comes out different.

"I love you."

The next three beats of Emma's heart are the longest of her life. She feels the hair on her arms stand on end and her throat tighten and her eyes widen – whether shocked or imploring she doesn't even know.

Killian's eyes are neither wide, nor startled, just immensely curious as they seem to inspect every detail of her face in the unforgiving morning light that has laid all her heart's truths bare in this moment.

And, as uncertain as Emma is of the convenience and suitability of this moment, this place, this choice her mind has made almost without her, she is much too certain of other things – this man, this feeling, this choice her heart has made with every bit of her – to regret the words.

Still she swallows heavily and tries her damnest to not say anything else but the seconds tick away and neither of them moves and Killian seems stuck on the contours of her mouth and—

"Killian—"

The three syllables are different and yet, when she utters them, sound exactly the same as the ones that came before them and Emma herself wonders what would've come after, if they hadn't brought Killian out of his reverie.

But they do and in the next moment, the stillness between them splits and the chill in early autumn air seems to dissipate in seconds as Killian's lips press against hers – harder than they ever have before. His hand winds in her hair and the second she returns the pressure of his mouth, her arm sliding around his shoulders, he tugs her head a little to the side so he can nip at her lip and let his tongue tangle with hers. When he leans further into her, his chest pressing against her own and his leg settling between hers, Emma feels her hands grapple for purchase in his shirt, trying to pull him even closer.

"Emma."

His voice is gruff with sleep and heavy with something else and he sounds absolutely _undone_, and she would laugh, except it makes her realizes what sort of noises are falling from her own lips – innocent compared to the ones that resonate in the high-ceilinged room when his mouth abandons hers and slides down the curve of her jaw and lower still until she feels his lips and tongue and teeth doing things to the skin of her neck that she could have never imagined she would feel or enjoy.

But enjoy them she does – more than she can remember ever enjoying anything else – even when his beard skims over some tender spot in a way that causes her stomach to constrict and she lets out a high-pitched giggle that makes Killian freeze with his mouth open and his tongue pressed firmly against her hammering pulse.

He pulls as far back as her hands would allow him – one buried in his hair and the nails of the other embedded firmly in his back. She opens her palm, caressing the indents she can feel with her fingertips through his shirt, and surges up quickly, kissing the edge of his jaw and the prickling hairs that made her laugh before she drops her head back on the pillow.

Killian huffs and looks down at her, shaking his head minutely, as if he also can't quite wrap his mind around her. His hand has slipped to her waist and keeps running up and down in a caress that settles and makes her whole being flutter all in the same moment. She watches his Adam apple go up and down and then his forehead presses against hers.

"Do you wish me to stop?"

Good lord, she cannot conceive of a single thing she wants less. His head moves with hers as she shakes it firmly and, when he moves, she feels his grin against the side of her face, his nose skipping over the lobe of her ear – colder than all the rest of him as always, and his hand still running along her side, moving lower with each pass, until it slips under the white cotton of her nightgown.

She gasps when she feels the hard pads of his fingers on her tight and Killian's head shoots up – his whole face a question and his eyes full of trepidation that makes Emma reach for him, her hand closing over the arm that he is leaning on. His forearm is still buried under his pillow and, for a second, her whole mind whirls, trying to find the right words to make him show her that part of him that she knows he is still hiding. But, in the very next second, his circles his hand and squeezes lightly the inside of her thigh and her thoughts scramble completely and her hand closes over the strong muscles above his elbow and she just holds on.

Apparently satisfied with her reaction, Killian leans down again, his lips brushing her ear as he speaks lowly – his words slow and clear and softer than she has ever heard.

"I want you to tell me when I do something you like and when I do something you don't, alright?"

She swallows on dry throat and squeezes his arm again to ground herself.

"Emma?"

"Yes?"

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes."

"And can you do that for me, love?"

She nods and twists her head to the side, her lips capturing half of his mouth in a kiss that is so wet and needy and uncoordinated that she feels her cheeks heat up with embarrassment, but then Killian moves again, his mouth taking possession of hers and his hand sliding higher up her thigh.

She realizes what he is about to discover seconds before his fingers brush the soft hairs between her legs and his mouth goes a little slack against hers before he pulls back sharply.

Her face is most certainly burning now.

"Emma, why..." he clears his throat and for the first time since he woke, she cannot look him in the eyes. "Why are you not wearing any undergarments?"

Emma fights the instinct to clamp her thighs shut only because his hand is still between them and she has never been touched like that and she still hopes he is going to do whatever he was about to do.

"I…" she takes a deep breath and when she starts talking she cannot seem to stop. "I forgot to take them last night, when I went to get my nightgown, a-and I didn't want to go back, but the ones that went with my evening gown were terribly uncomfortable, but I thought—"

She is always glad when Killian kisses her but she is especially glad now when he halts the flow of words with his mouth against hers and each press of his lips seems to tease a little of the tension away until she feels warm and mellow all over and her hand just cards lightly through his hair and her legs fall open further. When two of his fingers press against her – above the place she knows they can enter, she gasps into his mouth – more out of surprise than pleasure. He pulls away slightly so he can watch her face as his fingertips trail over her mound and press lightly until her gasp turns into a meow and her eyes fall shut in much more than surprise.

"This. I… I like this," she whispers unnecessary but he doesn't laugh at her.

His thumb settles on that exquisite spot that Emma cannot believe she didn't know she possessed and runs gently back and forth, pressing a bit harder every once in a while. When she opens her eyes his have grown so much darker that she thinks this must be what the unexplored depths of the sea look like – almost dangerous, enticing, utterly irresistible. Never before has she felt like she is entirely at his mercy and he is entirely aware and delighted by it – it sends a thrill through her body that culminates where his thumb is.

She feels her body following his movements and cues without conscious thought but then two of his fingers try to push deeper, _into_ her, and she flinches instinctively. Killian pulls away and murmurs in her ear – apologies or promises or reassurances – she is not sure and it doesn't quite matter – she lets out a sigh and ties to will away the tension in her muscles.

She remembers this – only Neal did not use his fingers and it truly hurt at first and stung unpleasantly long after, so she knows it will hurt no matter what, but this time she has no doubts about whether or not she wants it anyway. She is about to tell Killian just that but then he dips his head and the cool tip of his nose pushes at the fabric of her nightgown until it skims her breast and then slides lightly – barely touching – over the hard point of her nipple. His mouth follows soon after and her breath backs into her throat, her chest pushed forward and her head tipped back as she looks at the ceiling – the morning light has almost entirely filled the room now and she can see little specks of dust dancing in the air above them.

"This too," she breathes, stammers, moans and, when she looks down, she sees only the mess of black and grey strands that is Killian's head buried in her bosom, his tongue swirling around her nipple in the same rhythm as his thumb swirls around that point of pleasure.

She can feel and _hear _the wet slide of his fingers and she has barely registered the pressure before she feels one of his fingers slip easily inside, her mouth falling open in surprise and both her hands reaching for him, trying to keep him close, just in case he is mad enough to pull away now.

In the next seconds or minutes or however time is measured in these moments when you lose sight and sense of it completely, Emma begins to fail at following and cataloguing everything that her body is experiencing. She registers her own cry of pleasure when his teeth rasp lightly over her nipple and the warmth of his body pressing her deeper into the bed and the silkiness of his hair under her hand and the sweat gathering at the base of her own scalp as she pants his name – once, twice, something blasphemous following the third, and the slick slide of another finger and the rough pad of his thumb pressing a bit firmer before she feels a wave of something hot and shocking and _brilliant_ washing from the hollow of her parched throat to her very toes and leaving a tingling sensation all over her skin and his name on her lips a little hoarser than before, with that added bit of wonder when she thought she was so in wonder of him already.

When she blinks herself back into the normal flow of time, her limbs feel heavy in the best of ways and there is the heat of Killian's body against her right side and she curls instinctively towards him. He smooths her hair out of her face and mumbles half to himself about how beautiful she is and, considering the sounds of just minutes ago, it is probably quite ridiculous that she blushes at this.

He dips his head down and kisses the space right below her ear where she can feel her hair sticking to her damp skin.

"Good morning, Mrs Jones."

The sound she makes is somewhere between a laugh and a whimper before her hands tug on his hair almost roughly so she can fuse her lips to his and pour in whatever energy she has left. Killian groans and hums and lets her plunder his mouth for a few seconds before he pulls back and kisses the place between her breasts where he has apparently pulled her gown back in place. Then he rolls away to lie on his back, his head tipped back and his hand over his eyes as he breathes deeply for a minute, and she wonders what comes next and how she can make him feel like _that_.

"Stay here," he murmurs and before she can voice her protests or just wrap her arms around him and pull him back, he slips out of bed.

Just that is enough to let some of the cold air between the covers and Emma feels the dampness on her thighs cool uncomfortably. She watches Killian quickly stack and light the fire singlehandedly, wondering what she should do, if she should retreat to her room to clean up, despite the fact that leaving this bed sounds like the most unappealing idea she can come up with for the next hour.

Killian opens a drawer and returns with a small towel in hand, something almost shy in his eyes when they find hers and Emma would laugh if she didn't feel the same uncertainly that is painted on his face. He slips back between the covers and she moves closer to meet him without really thinking about it – it seems to put him at ease. When she feels his hand on her thigh again, her heartbeat responds immediately and she feels like a piece of dough that has been worked into a state of perfect pliancy and yet, she is not certain if she is ready for something so intense again. But then she feels him just gently wipe between and down her thighs and she sighs and sinks back into the bed.

"I don't want to move."

Killian's lips quirk up and he leans down to kiss her temple and Emma can't help but grin at not being the only one unable to keep away.

"That would do nicely since I was just considering the merits of breakfast in bed."

She closes her eyes and stretches her arms above her, letting out a pleased little moan just at the thought of not having to get out of bed for some toast and, when she looks at Killian again, the hunger in his own eyes is unmistakable though, she thinks – hopes, not entirely of a nature that calls for bread and butter. Her arms reach for him but he easily catches both her wrists in his hand and brings them down to the bedsheet.

"You should drink and eat something."

His hand releases her and she feels his thumb swipe at her bottom lip – her lips do feel dry, as does her throat, which is the only reason she lets him put on his breeches and walk out. That and the fact that she truly needs a little longer before she can be certain that her legs will hold her upright.

/

He returns with a tray that puts the one Ruby brought her to shame and a letter from Alice that makes Emma's heart flutter when she sees that it's addressed to both of them.

Her stomach makes its desire for the warm pastries that she can already smell obvious and she grabs a scone and a butter knife as soon as Killian sets the small feast on the bed. He seems to possess much more self-control and first turns his attention to the letter tucked beneath one of the plates, slipping his pointer finger under the envelope's flap and tearing it slowly and methodically in a way that causes Emma to swallow her bite a tad sooner than she intends.

As she spreads jam on her scone, Killian puts on a pair of glasses that make something in her chest tingle and his eyes fly along his daughter's messy script, a fond and melancholy smile playing over his face the whole time, an occasional burst of laughter making Emma's fingers itch to snatch the two pages out of his hand. Instead she pours out the tea and once he sighs and lets his hand drop she makes him exchange the letter for a full cup.

The underlining current of Alice's homesickness is fortunately brightened by her obvious excitement to reunite with Miss Hood and the numerous things she saw on her way there that she simply _had to tell them about._

"Bloody hell."

Emma glances at her husband to see him clenching his jaw and obviously struggling to make his toast stay in place while he butters it without the assistance of his prosthetic hand. She suspects that he would be just fine, if he used his left even without the attachment, instead of keeping it covered by his side, but calling him out on it at this moment seems like the last thing she should do. So instead she just reaches over and holds the pieces of bread in place for him, while her eyes stay on the sheet of paper in her other hand.

"Thank you."

A glance at Killian shows him trying to master his embarrassment so before he can take a bite of his food, she reaches over and grasps his chin lightly, turning his face around so she can kiss him before calmly returning her attention to her reading. Only the slightest uplift of her mouth revealing how good and free the motion made her feel.

"Have you ever met her? Miss Hood," she asks once she has finished reading.

"On a couple of occasions."

Emma waits and waits and then gives him a questioning, impatient look that makes Killian chuckle into his cup.

"She is a charming young woman. Rather… free-spirited, I'd say. Not unlike my daughter, of course. I think we got along quite well."

She has little doubt about that. Her husband is hardly the most agreeable person at first sight but she is certain that he must've been incredibly accommodating and predisposed to like his daughter's chosen one.

"I think I would've envied her – if it were anyone but Alice, I would've," she surprises herself with the easy way it slips out – honest and calm, not even bitter.

Killian leans his head to the side and studies her with some confusion, waiting for her to elaborate.

"If I've ever met anyone who deserves it, it's her but… I think I should've envied anyone else such a loving father."

Killian smiles at her but it's tinged with some reserve, some sadness, and Emma debates whether she should ask, if this is the right time, if there will ever be a right time.

"Much as I'd like to think that I have always tried, I have not always succeeded in doing right by my daughter."

She swallows and pushes the tray between them to the foot of the bed so she can move to sit beside him.

"How… Can I ask how…"

"How she was send away?"

Emma nods cautiously and reaches for him and it still shocks her when he comes willingly, sliding down and resting his head above her chest. The small part of her that is not fully focused on him exults in the idea that perhaps he accepted and believed her when—

"I didn't like leaving her alone for long. Even with Mrs Lucas. Even when I was working— She liked to collect things, the strangest things, and she would play with them on the floor in my study and… I didn't like letting her out of my sight."

She has no trouble imagining Killian Jones as the complete opposites of most fathers who all too willingly hand their children over as soon as there is a pair of female arms in the room.

"But Eloise was… she did not care for Alice's attention. She barely seemed aware of her existence most of the time," he says, contempt dripping from every word and his hand clenching atop his thigh. "But there were times when she would go to any length necessary to get my attention. To incent me or… Gods, I never knew what she truly wanted."

Emma half regrets spoiling the morning with _her_ but still she wants to know, she wants him to tell her and show her everything that would otherwise just lurk in the shadows of his mind. Her fingers kneed tentatively at the back of his neck and the motion seems to make his muscles loosen a bit, his hand flattening out and then slowly reaching for hers. His fingers play with hers, as if examining and wondering at their slimness and shortness against his own and his story flows easier around the distraction.

"We'd still make journeys with the ships at first. Liam and I. I hadn't gone since Alice was born but… she was approaching her eleventh birthday and Liam and Elsa hadn't been married long and I couldn't stand… I _wanted _to sail away. Just for a little while."

She curls her fingers around his thumb and wishes she could take weight of regret and responsibility out of his voice.

"I'd left her in Liam and Elsa's care but she'd… She got homesick eventually, asking for me and then for Mrs Lucas and demanding to go home to check for herself that I wasn't there… I don't think I'd ever realized how much she wanted to be rid of her. Always knew she didn't care but I didn't…"

He shakes his head and presses his forehead into her collarbone and she just tips her chin, burying her nose in his hair. His words are muffled against her.

"That was the one. That voyage."

Emma pulls back slightly to look at him but he doesn't look up, he just rotates his shoulder a bit and slips his left arm under them and around her waist.

"Oh."

"Aye. I got off better than most. I spend weeks in the infirmary and only Liam would come but I wasn't surprised. It was no place for a child, I preferred Alice wouldn't— And her… I half expected her to have left by the time I got back. But she didn't. Alice did. She'd send her off to be schooled in the city. I was frantic at first but Liam had inquired and the I did as well and… she was getting the best tutoring money could buy, the best lodgings, everything and…"

He stiffens against her and starts pulling away – slowly and thoroughly, letting go of her hand, raising himself up on his left forearm, pulling it away and turning around so his back is to her and he can look at the sun now high in the sky. Emma doesn't protest. She waits.

"And she'd ask why I wanted to bring her back – that she was young and she'd be… confused, frightened, disgusted."

Emma feels her nails dig into her palms to the point of breaking skin and by now she knows enough to guess that he can't – and won't, even if he could – put the extend of that woman's vileness and cruelty into words.

"I hate her," it's of no use and it slips out without her meaning it to but, thankfully, Killian doesn't seem to hear.

"I didn't know if…," he clears his throat and his shoulders drop forward. "I went to her eventually. I missed her _so much_ but… I wanted to keep her safe and away from her all the more and— By the time she was old enough to demand she come home, Eloise had wrought enough damage that she could never stay in Storybrooke too long without rumours starting and people looking at her the wrong way and me challenging one too many blackguards to a duel and…"

He shrugs and looks down and she can't keep still anymore. But when she slips her arms around his waist, he doesn't pull away, so she sets her chin on his shoulder and just stays there for a while, until Killian leans into her embrace and she turns her head to the side and presses her mouth against the point where his pulse is visible from so close.

"You do not care, do you?" he asks calmly, knowingly, and twists a little so he can look at her.

She cannot hide her surprise, she can only shake her head, her eyes filling at the softness and wonder on his face. His hand reaches up and he lightly caresses her cheek, right under her eye, right where a tear is about to roll down.

"No. You're too good."

"She doesn't care either."

"I know. She is _much_ too good."

She chokes out a little laugh and Killian catches the tear as soon as it leaves her eye and when she tilts her head up, he turns to face her fully and meets her in the middle, and when she slides her hands over his shoulders and tugs both his arms around her, he holds her tighter.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Very vague mentions of abortion. Storytelling, light angst and lots of touching.

* * *

The world outside seems to be plunging further into gloom rather than brightening with the advancing day but, for the moment, Emma feels impervious to the thickening clouds threatening rain and thunder. The sheets are still warm and she can feel the ghost of Killian's beard on her jaw and neck and the tops of her breasts whose pinkness against the whiteness of her nightgown makes her cheeks redden as well.

She used to love storms – the sheer power and unpredictability of them made her admire each bolt of lightning with wide eyes and an awed smile. Until that night when they laid her out with her legs spread wide as the wind and the branches whipped the window behind her and let her go and curl in on herself only when the storm was already dying down, when Emma found herself a little emptier than she'd ever felt before, the water in the gutters trickling away with her tears.

She shakes her head and burrows deeper under the covers, scowling at the raised hairs on her arms. When Killian comes back with a fresh pot of tea and not a paper in sight, she can't help the incredulous climb of her eyebrow and the joyful flutters in her stomach gradually start anew.

"You're not working today?"

Killian stops a foot from their bed and his unguarded expression shifts into one of uncertainty.

"Would you like me to give you some privacy? I—"

"Oh, no, no." Emma scrambles across the bed, grabs a handful of his shirt and tugs, making him plant a knee on the bed so he doesn't topple over her. "Sorry."

He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough and ducks his head before angling it to the side, obviously trying not to stare at where the laces of her gown are undone at the top.

"I thought I should attempt this… giving myself to leisure that my brother has been going on about for years."

His awkwardness makes her bolder and she slides her hands over his shoulders.

"Then perhaps I'm the one who is in the way," she teases, confident that he does not mind that she hasn't so much as set foot out of his bed.

Killian rolls his eyes, pulls away and dramatically throws himself on the pillows and his arm over his face.

"Your presence is sheer torture."

She follows suit, landing half on top of him with her head on his stomach and eliciting a rather undignified grunt from Killian.

"Then tortured you shall be, my lord."

"Not a lord, I'm afraid."

"Ah, but isn't every husband his wife's lord," she says with a touch of sarcasm, hoping he doesn't mind the disrespect.

Killian chuckles and reaches for her, his large hand almost enclosing her entire waist as he tentatively kneads her flesh through the thin cotton.

"I will gladly settle for "captain"."

"How _did_ you become a captain? You said you always dreamt of a life at sea."

She doesn't bother to temper her curiosity, assuming that, with everything else he has shared with her, Killian will have no reservations about telling her about his career and will hopefully derive more pleasure from this than other stories.

"It's a rather ridiculous tale, if I am to tell it properly."

"I thought you were given to leisure today, captain."

He lightly pinches her side, making her squirm even as she continues to use him as a pillow.

"Why, it sounds to me like we should make a trade."

/

"A trade?" her voice is tinged with curiosity and playful suspicion and Killian finds himself grinning up at the ceiling.

"Indeed. Quid pro quo."

"What does that mean?"

He looks back at her and sees the moment the embarrassment registers and Emma ducks her head. He doesn't want her to be embarrassed. He doesn't want her to ever hesitate to ask him about anything she hasn't been taught. But he stops himself from saying anything of the sort and instead keeps his voice completely neutral, as if not at all surprised by the query.

"It means a fair exchange. I tell you something… you tell me something."

"As if we don't share enough secrets."

"It needn't be a secret. Though I dare say there is little we should be afraid to reveal at this point."

In the silence that follows he listens to the rain beating against the window and reconciles himself with how much he wants to know Emma's beginnings. He means what he said, though he can scarcely believe it. They have shared things that he knows each thought would make the other pull away and yet here they are. He can smell her all around his bed, he can feel the weight of her on his stomach and the warmth of her that is still a revelation.

"Alright."

Her hair rustles over his shirt as she nods resolutely and sends him an almost challenging look.

"Alright?"

"Yes. You've had much longer to gather stories and secrets so I think I have the advantage."

He gasps dramatically, placing his hand over his heart, and this time she shakes her head back and forth before turning over and crawling up a bit so that her lips can reach his own.

There is a softness about Emma that he wouldn't have thought possible, if she wasn't here – hovering above him, her breasts barely brushing his chest as her mouth barely brushes his, her fingers softer than the cotton of his shirt against his neck and her hair softer still where it tickles one side of his face. He is almost afraid to touch her – he has only the one rough hand to hold her with, but his head tilts up unconsciously, giving into her without protest, with pleasure.

She loves him. The thought sneaks in uninvited and he shrinks away from it – has been trying not to examine it too closely all morning as he focused on her and her pleasure, as he shooed away Mrs Lucas and busied himself with breakfast, as he gave into his melancholy and longing for his daughter and memories that he has kept locked away for years.

He tells himself he was hearing things, early in the morning, half-awake and dazed by her presence. Knows he is lying to himself.

But, as unusual as it is for him, Killian was not without his hopes – he hoped that he could earn her affection eventually, gradually, with a great deal of effort which couldn't be more worth it. But this – this feels like too much and too soon and he hasn't _done_ enough to have it. He hasn't done much of anything, hasn't given her much of value, he didn't even truly try to be amiable and indulgent at first. He has just… been.

His breath stalls in his chest as Emma's lips trail up his nose and press against his forehead before she blessedly pulls away and resumes her previous position, pillowing her head on his stomach and letting her knees drop to the sides.

He has now seen her in the throes of passion but he has never seen her so relaxed.

"So why did you want to sail?"

Her voice snaps him out of his musings and he blinks at her in confusion for a few seconds much to Emma's obvious enjoyment.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said when you were young all you wanted to do was sail."

"Ah, yes. Well, I—" he clears his throat and wonders how to preface this. "As I said, my initial pursuits and ideas were childish, to put it mildly."

"Killian, you are allowed to have been a child. And, thus, childish."

He laughs and nods.

"If you say so, love. Well, you could say I was more or less raised for it. Though never for anything so glamourous as a captaincy. My father was a common fisherman. Or so I thought. I never could get my mother to tell me, if she knew of his less than reputable activities before they were brought into the light proper."

Emma stays quiet and he settles his hand on her hip again, lightly tracing the protruding bone.

"He went out with our boat one day and just never came back. We thought he'd drowned and, mind you, he might have, but when the debtors came calling it seemed like there were other possibilities as well."

"He left you behind."

The shock of the blunt statement is less than that of her matter-of-fact voice and Emma must have sensed that because her hand takes his own and she looks up with contrition.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean—"

"No, you— you are not wrong. For some reason, the longer he was gone, the more likely it seemed that he'd gone willingly. Which makes little sense, of course, because if he were dead… But resentment seemed incapable of sticking to my young heart for a few years and all I could think about was how if I were to sail all the seas there were, it was inevitable that eventually…"

She runs her index finger over each of his own and then over the lines on his palm and over the ones on top of his hand. It's hypnotizing and he almost feels like he is just telling her a story, not his own stupid heart's desires.

"By the time resentment started sticking and – if I didn't think it, at least I claimed that I didn't care about finding my father – I'd been helping Liam at the docks long enough to develop a fascination with the sea simply for its own sake, rather than the living it afforded us or the pathway to my father it could provide."

"And you dreamt of being captain of a glorious ship?"

He chuckles and shakes his head, enclosing her whole hand in his for a moment before he opens it again and lets her continue playing.

"I did not actually. That was always Liam. He dreamt of being a Lieutenant and, as soon as he was made one, he was striving to be a Commander. Must've climbed the ranks faster than any man before him. And yet, no one could resent him for it – he was much too liked among common sailors and officers alike, among men and women and most of everyone with ears to listen to him talk."

/

The pride in his voice is almost a physical thing and Emma smiles as she fits her pinkie between his knuckles but it is not Liam's dreams that she wants to know.

"And you?"

"Ah, I still had rather childish ambitions. I…"

She watches in amusement and adoration as he fights his blush.

"I wanted to find an island."

Emma is careful not to laugh but she can't help the way her eyes widen.

"You wanted to have an island?"

"Not to _have _it. Just to find it. You know, the way centuries ago seafaring men would set out on a voyage and find lands which they didn't even know existed. The way they got to add a piece to a puzzle that was thought completed. I wanted to traverse it with my own feet and shape it on a map that didn't have a place for it before."

"That sounds thrilling."

Killian shrugs and focuses his gaze on their hands, locking and unlocking their fingers.

"The kind of thing any man aboard a ship but with his head in the clouds might come up with."

"I don't think so."

"No?"

She shakes her head confidently.

"Most people can barely conceive of the world as it is, need to break it into pieces, narrow it down and squeeze it into… different countries and towns and specific rooms and drawers and corsets. And you thought of _enlarging_ it."

Killian gives her a surprised, almost awed look that makes her want to look down and keep staring into his eyes indefinitely all in the same moment.

"And whose name would you have claimed it in?" she teases, trying to loosen her lungs again, unprepared for the way he pulls his hand away so he can wrap it around her waist.

"Why, back then, my queen's, of course. Were I to discover anything now, I think I should be much too tempted to try to curry favour with my wife."

She swallows with some difficulty and turns a little to the side, feelings Killian's fingers settle below her ribcage.

"W-wouldn't that be treason?"

"Isn't this?"

Her confused frown has barely formed when she feels Killian's fingers curl and elicit a shriek of laughter from her own lips. For a man with one hand, he is much too good at this and absolutely relentless. Emma tries to twist around, get a hold of him and retaliate but all she can really manage are desperate attempts to squirm away or curl into an impenetrable ball that make Killian's deep laughter join her own hiccupping giggles.

"Why— Why would you?" she gasps as he finally lets her escape, clutching her pillow for protection, a safe distance between them.

Killian shrugs unapologetically and Emma marvels at the fact that this man is apparently as much her husband as the one who talks in perfectly constructed sentences, with perfectly controlled emotions and spends most of his time scowling at numbers. She cannot say she minds in the least but it doesn't stop her from narrowing her eyes at him from across the large bed.

"I was just preparing to be flattered," she says as haughtily as she can manage without dissolving into laughter again.

Killian's face clears and he looks at her thoughtfully before he shuffles closer. Her muscles tense in preparation, her mouth twitches at the corners, but he moves slowly and just rests his chin on the pillow she is still clutching, his eyes boring deep into hers with that awed intensity that she doesn't think any one person could possibly deserve to be on the receiving end of.

"I, Captain Killian Jones, do swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Emma and claim any islands, beaches or castles I might discover in her name and squeeze nought into countries, towns, rooms, drawers or corsets. So help me God."

She should probably laugh but, for the life of her, she can't. All she can do is bite at her lips and watch him as he moves closer to seal his pledge with a kiss.

/

"Well, starting the fire in the dining room was certainly a waste. You'd do well to bring some more wood upstairs."

"Have you completely lost your marbles? I'm not going up there."

"Ruby—"

"Trust me. If they need more firewood, they'll come and get it… I'm sure they are keeping plenty warm."

"_Ruby_."

"Oh, come now. As if your thoughts are any different."

"I prefer to have no thoughts on the matter… A whole day. They could've at least come down to break their fast."

"Leave them be. They've been married for bloody months. They have to make up for lost time."

"Ruby!"

/

Aside from those days and nights in the infirmary, Killian can't recall even spending an entire day in bed. Half his childhood he was much too excited about the world outside and the other half he was much too needed around the house or down at the docks. Then, in his youth, a day not spent exploring was a day wasted – Liam agreed when they were at sea and Milah agreed when they were on land.

Things changed after Eloise. Thankfully, they shared a bedroom briefly – a period in which he doesn't think he ever got more than a couple of hours of sleep throughout any one night, recalls choosing to sleep on the floor half the time rather than beside her – much to her amusement. After that, the privacy of his bedroom was all he craved, but Alice was always incentive enough to get out of bed. And after she was gone, he supposes it was habit that kept him going. Routine – the only remaining friend of those who have little to look forward to.

Even after the accident, he'd abhorred the idea of lying down for hours – it made him feel even more broken than he was. So late nights and early mornings became an indicator that he is doing fine, that there are still things to get up for. Things that are in his control.

Now, as the light cools and fades and the rain and wind come harder and harder at the house, he cannot think of a single reason to leave this bed and it doesn't make him feel guilty. It doesn't make him feel useless for not doing something with the hours that tick by. He has done something – he has made his wife smile and laugh and come and he can't really conceive of anything more worth doing right now. Aside perhaps from making her talk.

"I can't help but feel like you owe me, my queen?"

Emma presses her mouth to his left shoulder – if she feels the deep grooves in his skin, she doesn't let on – and breaths, her cheeks puffing out until he feels the gathering warmth even through his sleeve and squirms a little against her.

"Do I now?" she asks distractedly as she pulls away.

"Aye. You owe me a story."

"I don't have any good stories," she says casually and he instinctively knows she means she doesn't have stories worth telling rather than that she has only bad ones.

"How do you know if you've never told them?"

She looks up at him with surprise, as if he has said the smartest thing she has ever heard, and Killian laughs and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Well… alright," she concedes with a smile that is equal parts bashful and brave and makes his heart do something frightful. "Once, when I was little, I hid in Regina's carriage when she was going to visit some important lady. I can't even remember the woman's name but I can tell you her cook made the best pies in the world."

"Wait, wait. Don't rush the story, love, how did you go from hiding in the carriage to tasting the cook's pie?"

"Oh, well, once we arrived, I snuck out and followed the driver. The drivers always go straight for the kitchens, you know – to beg something sweet off the older maids and to sweet talk the young ones."

He laughs – she is already better at this than she thinks – and reaches up to comb his fingers through her tangled hair. He has some little experience but, if it's anything like Alice's, Emma will bemoan rolling around in bed all day without taking a comb to it come tomorrow morning.

"So I followed him there and when the cook asked if I were Mrs Mill's ward, I said yes. And when she asked, if I wanted a peach, I said yes. And when she asked if I wanted to watch her make her gypsy pie, I said yes."

"Is that how you learnt to make that?"

"Mhm."

"Just from that one time?"

Emma lifts her shoulder and tilts her head as if it's no big deal but Killian just beams down at her with delight.

"Your talents are wasted on being a lady, aren't they?" he jokes, smiling fondly at her.

"Oh, I was never much of a lady," she grins slyly. "The sneaking into carriages should've told you as much. As well as my atrocious behaviour around here."

Killian rolls his eyes and settles his hand at the base of her neck, rubbing slow circles into the exposed flesh.

"You do not realize how well you get on."

"Oh, no, you don't realize how exacting and demanding and judgmental most people are. Here on your hill, your island, away from the tentacles of society and its "graces"."

"Are you saying I run a loose household, Mrs Jones? Because I'll have you know you're part of it."

"And I have no complaints."

"Not a one?"

She bites her lip in a coquettish way, that he finds both surprising from her and painfully appealing, and shakes her head.

"Good lord, I must be dreadful at this, if my wife has no complaints."

Her laughter is loud and beautiful and he can hardly maintain his pained façade.

"Whatever shall you talk to the other ladies about at tea parties."

"Oh, I shall come up with something. Otherwise I would look terribly haughty and superior in my perfect happiness."

This startles him – his hand ceasing its gentle movements and the grin on his face freezing and then slowly melting as he remains staring at her.

"Killian?"

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Happy?"

She looks at him as if he has asked her a terribly silly question and, for a split second, he is afraid of the answer.

"Very much so."

He exhales. Inhales again and realizes that the peaceful feeling of today, the lack of that need to constantly do and never just be, is exactly that – happiness. Happiness without the bittersweet tinge of knowing that it's going to slip away as soon as Alice or Liam leaves and he is left on his own again. Happiness bold enough to break routine.

"Me too."

/

His hand closes around her upper arm, his fingernails sink into her skin through the wet fabric of her sleeve and he pulls her roughly toward him.

"Wait. Wait I can't just leave," her voice sounds shrill and panicked even to her own ears and she doesn't know why she is trying to reason with him.

Instead she should try to plant herself into the ground but it's all slippery mud and her bare feet find no purchase and he drags her out of the stables as if she is little more than a ragdoll. Buttercup neighs after them and she feels the hot tears on her frozen cheeks. Her arms and feet are horrifyingly white and she would think she was dead, if she couldn't feel her heart hammering madly in her chest.

"Please. Don't. You don't want me and I don't want to go."

He pulls harder and she feels the burn in her shoulder but it serves to her advantage – her arm, slick with rainwater, slips out of his grasp and she falls on her backside and tries to scramble backwards toward the house she is being pulled away from. She knows that if she could just make it through the front door, she'll be safe. She'll be home and she'll be safe.

He lunges for her and she tries to kick out at him but he captures her ankle in a vice grip and starts dragging her through the mud.

"Stop it! Stop!" she scrambles for a grip but the storm has melted the world and there is nothing solid enough for her to hold onto.

She needs to hold on. She can't slip away. She can't leave. She doesn't want to leave. She doesn't want to leave him.

/

"Bloody hell!"

The sharp pain snaps Killian awake and his hand reaches under the blankets to rub at his ankle. He turns to the side, assuming she kicked him in her sleep, but the sight of Emma quickly makes him forget the dull ache in his foot.

"Emma?"

"Don't. Leave me be. I want to stay."

She whimpers and clutches the bedsheet under her, pushing herself further up the bed until her head hits the backboard but the blow doesn't seem enough to snap her out of whatever nightmare she is caught in.

"Emma, wake up, love."

He sets his hand on her arm and tries to shake her gently but her face only twists further in anguish and she tries to push herself through the solid wood and the wall behind it.

"Emma!"

The thunder muffles her next words but when her wail turns into his own name, Killian feels it pierce him like a sword and for a few long, torturous seconds he is frozen with indecision. Then he wraps his arm around her shivering body and pulls her into him before he grabs her chin firmly and tries to still her trashing head.

"Emma. Emma, wake up!"

Her eyes don't snap open and she doesn't gasp or jump, he knows she is awake when she goes completely still. Her eyelids flutter hesitantly and he lets go and lightly sets his hand on her hip over the blanket that's tangled up and twisted below her waist.

"K-Killian?" her voice sounds hoarse and so very small and uncertain and he doesn't know what to say.

He wants to tell her he is here for her, that he's got her and won't let anyone hurt her again, but he doesn't know if that will bring her relief or more fear. He doesn't know if she was calling for him or if she was running from him in her dream.

"Yeah, it's me," he settles on eventually and tentatively runs his hand up her back, barely making contact.

The sound she makes is almost inhuman and makes him freeze with worry and dread, feeling like he has heard her soul. Then her slim, trembling arms wrap around his neck and she literally climbs on top of him, her fingers and her nose feeling like icy pinpricks as she buries them in his skin and his hair, her legs tangling with his own. He lets himself hold her properly now, wrapping his left arm tight around her waist, even when he feels like there is no force on earth that can make her let go, and cups the back of her head in his hand.

He lets himself say those words now.

"It's alright, love. You're safe here. I've got you. I've got you."

She nods frantically against his neck, where he can feel the growing wetness of her tears, and he tries to smooth out her hair and kisses the top of her head.

"Emma, try to breathe with me," he deepens his breathing, trying to calm her own even as he can feel her heart beating erratically against him.

"I don't want to leave."

"You're not leaving, sweetheart. This is your home, nobody is going to make you leave."

The next bolt of lightning is bright enough to illuminate the dark room but all he can see is the empty space on her side of the bed and the riot that is her hair – tangled and a shade darker with cold sweat. Killian rubs his left arm up and down her back, trying to generate warmth, and pulls the blankets up around them.

He doesn't know how much time passes. Three smaller lightnings and buckets upon buckets of water later, Emma's breathing gradually syncs with his own and the little hiccups and sniffs disappear completely, her heart feeling like a steady force rather than an animal trying to break free.

"I'm sorry."

For the life of him, he can't decide it he hates the words or how tired and heartbroken she sounds more.

"Oh, love. Don't be sorry. Everything's going to be alright."

It must be some sort of miracle but he actually believes that.

"It's not t-this bad usually. I… It was just a-a different one."

"A different nightmare?"

She nods and finally pulls back to look at him. Her eyes are red and watery and there is a lock of hair sticking to every other tear track on her face and he doesn't know how he is ever going to talk himself into letting her out of his arms, let alone his sight.

"He… he was trying to take me away. From here."

He leans down and presses his forehead to hers as his thumb brushes away her damp hair, glad to find her a little bit warmer.

"I'm not going to let anyone take you away, my love."

"I know. I know, it's stupid but it felt so…" she swallows visibly and pushes her forehead harder against him, his shirt bunched up in her small hands.

"It's not stupid. No one can control their nightmares."

"I think it was the storm."

"The storm gave you nightmares?"

She nods and then ducks her head under his chin and he can tell that she thinks this makes the whole thing even more stupid and childish and he is not going to stand for it.

Killian tugs on the white sheet tangled and abandoned on her side of the bed until he can pull it around their blanket-wrapped forms and over their heads.

"What are you doing?"

He slides down and brings her along, tucking her against him so that every bit of her is covered and pressed to his own body.

"Storm can't get in here."

"It can't get in the room either," she replies and he swears he can almost hear the fond exasperation that must be painted on her face and under it the relief and gratitude.

"Humour me," he whispers in her ear and kisses the shell of it.

When she responds by pressing her cheek against his, he lets his mouth move to the side and slowly kisses away all the traces of her tears.

"If I go back to sleep, you'll still hold me close, won't you?"

Once again, he thinks the real trouble will be letting her go.

"Always."


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Further work on that M rating aka they touchTM.

* * *

When he wakes barely any light is coming through the bedsheet. The bedsheet confuses him for a moment, before he becomes fully aware of the warm body laid half on top of him and snoring lightly. Killian smiles and closes his eyes again, even though he knows it's unlikely he will be able to go back to sleep – they should probably get out of bed today and do something marginally productive but he feels no urgency crawling up his spine or snipping at his heels the way he usually does.

For the last two days, he has experienced the almost forgotten phenomenon of sleeping through the night, except for the incident of Emma's nightmare. The memory makes him duck his head and press his lips lightly against the crown of her head but he is careful to remain otherwise still, loath as he is to wake her.

He is not a stranger to nightmares but hers made his throat close up worse than his own did and he tries to carefully assimilate and accept the fact that he very much hopes she will not wish to return to her own bedroom and be alone the next time something like that happens.

/

When she wakes the world is bright and freshly washed but, in her cocoon, it is dulled to a gentle lightness and softness that almost immediately settle the torn edges of her nerves. She wipes the hair out of her face, feels her eyes a bit swollen and her nose stuffed, but she is warm again and when she moves, she feels Killian's arms tighten around her.

She carefully dips a foot in the depths of her consciousness but the image and feel of the man of her past dragging her away from her present and future seems to have become – much like him – a mere ghost that can't do more than make a shiver run down her spine when she turns back to look at it. And Emma has no reason to look back.

She'd also like nothing better than to ignore the existence of a world outside this bed for another day but she thinks it might be a bit of a push for Killian after years of early rising and constant desk duty. That and she feels in need of a bath.

Regina's collection of powders and perfumes was overwhelming and probably downright poisonous but she rarely had a bath more than once a month and Emma finds that she has quickly gotten used to Ruby preparing a tub of warm water in her chambers at the end of every week.

"Good morning, my queen."

She feels an entirely new kind of shiver skitter down her spine when she feels Killian's breath under her ear and she unconsciously traps one of his legs between her own.

"I believe we must deign the household with our presence, unless we wish to have a mutiny on our hands."

She hums and walks her fingers over his chest, feeling him suck in a breath as the sheet rustles around them.

"Have you ever had a mutiny on your hands?"

"Why, you don't think too highly of my person, if you are asking me that."

"On the contrary."

Her eyes meet his and she feels something shift inside her at the tenderness in his gaze – something that gives her almost the exact same feeling as the arms and blankets wrapped around her.

"Are you alright?"

She nods wordlessly and surges up to press her lips to his in a firm, closemouthed kiss. When she pulls away she feels lighter, while Killian's eyes seem to have grown darker and much less focused. She suppresses her grin with some effort.

"We should venture downstairs for breakfast and you can spend some time with your letters and papers while I discuss the menu for the next few days with Mrs Lucas, but then… I think I wish to have a bath."

Killian's eyes widen a little and he grins widely, raising his eyebrows at her.

"My, you are feeling commanding today."

"It's what queens do."

"Indeed. Are you sure you don't wish to have your bath before breakfast, your Majesty?"

She swallows and gathers air enough for a few breaths and all the boldness she had to keep in check when she was young and finally feels like she can let out now.

"I was thinking… we could save Ruby some trouble and… share."

Killian's face goes slack for a moment, something heady and intense passes through his eyes and then his eyebrow is almost lost in the hair falling over his forehead.

"That's one way to tell your husband he stinks."

"It's a way to tell him some other things as well."

This time he is the one that swallows carefully and seems to gather a generous amount of air before he replies shortly.

"I see."

/

Breakfast is an interesting affair. Granny is almost civil – or as civil as Granny gets while made to serve a late breakfast, and for the first time since Emma set foot in this house, the old woman seems incapable of meeting her eyes. Ruby, on the other hand, has no such trouble. The pretty maid's eyebrows could give Killian's a run for their money and Emma finds herself choking on her scone twice in the span of only so many minutes. Killian's earnest and concerned expression and the way he sets his hand lightly on her back only make Emma blush harder.

Really, she should not be made to blush over spending a night in her husband's bed, or two nights, or however many nights he wants her there. She tells herself that every time she sees Ruby's lips twitch in what is clearly a very conscious effort to only appear as if she is suppressing her smile. Emma narrows her eyes and just barely resists sticking her tongue out at the other woman.

Instead she tries to focus on the man beside her and delight in the fact that he still looks like he hasn't completely shaken off their conversation in bed. Which is perfectly fine by Emma. While she greatly appreciates that he asked for his correspondence to be left on his desk and has given her and his cup of tea his full attention for now, she is perfectly aware that once he sits down to all the work that must have piled up, he will be lost to her.

She grins a little to herself and hopes that she has at least provided enough incentive for him to come back before too long.

/

"We need candles and soap and— oh, perhaps you can have Ruby take me with her when she goes to the confectioner next."

"As if you don't consume enough sugar as it is," Granny mutters under her breath but it's not tart enough to be disagreement or even proper displeasure and Emma just hums in shameless semi-agreement.

"Oh, sugar as well actually."

"Naturally."

"And cocoa and butter."

"Emma."

The use of her name startles her – not because of any impertinence or impropriety but because of how personal and almost entreating it sounds. She looks up to find Granny staring at her as if she can read all of her innermost thoughts through her skull and Emma sets her pencil down to give her her full attention.

The cook doesn't have much to say but what she does feels to Emma almost like a blow straight to her chest.

"He has had his heart broken one time too many."

She takes a moment to regain her equilibrium, to look the old woman straight in the eyes and hope that she knows a truth when she hears one.

"And I'm going to make sure it's never broken again."

Granny scrutinizes her for a long minute but Emma doesn't sweat or fidget or look away and the brisk nod and almost-smile she receives at the end feel like the last door of the house being unlocked for her.

/

By the time she has completed her lists and made her arrangements to go shopping with Ruby, replied to Mary Margaret's letter and written one to Alice in which she is careful to not forget herself and yet communicate her excitement and satisfaction that Killian has agreed to let go of some of the company's workload, Emma sits down in the library and sees that the clock's arrow is just slipping below 4.

She takes one of the prettiest atlases and spreads it on the floor in front of the fireplace, deciding to give her husband at least another couple of hours before she begins her ambush.

/

Killian is finally getting some bloody work done.

For the first hour he spent in his study he must have caught himself staring sightlessly out of the window at least a dozen times. There wasn't much to see outside – just fallen leaves drenched in last night's rain, some branches hanging limply and barely holding on to the trees and the sky spreading cloudless but still somewhat muted above. It was not a pretty day, then again Killian was not really admiring the landscape. The images that kept flashing through his mind were much prettier.

He finishes reading the protocol before him, adds the last bit of relevant information he managed to extract from it in his ledger and tosses it to the right, in the pile of documents he has managed to go through. It's bigger than the pile still waiting for him but not by much.

Killian groans, wishing himself done with all this. Of course, that thought leads to what will hopefully follow once he is done and that leads to some other interesting thoughts. He tries to shake them off, truly he does. He has little faith in human nature but plenty in human willpower and that is what he tries to draw on now. Only, it's hard to feel any measure of satisfaction when he manages to shake the images of water gathering in the hollow on Emma's sharp collarbones, the tips of her hair darker and her nipples hard and visible just above water.

"Devil woman," he mutters under his breath and grabs another piece of paper from the never-ending pile on his left.

/

She finds her drawing beaches and palm trees before the crackling fire. Her languid and careful movements are in complete contrast with the furious scribbling that is going on at the other end of the hallway and Ruby can't help but admire the contrast for a moment.

Emma seemed lost to Ruby from the moment Regina's carriage stopped in front of the Jones household and then she seemed lost weeks later after being shown all around the house. So Ruby just assumed that was part of her – just like her green eyes and her almost translucently pale hands. Now she knows better.

Now she can see that Emma Jones wasn't born full of melancholy and resignation. If she had to make a bet – and secretly, Ruby loves making bets, no matter how many times Granny has told her how inappropriate a past time it is for a young woman – she would wager that once upon a time Emma was full of hope and curiosity and even a little mischief.

It's not really a blind guess, Ruby has started seeing some of it peeking out recently, she can almost feel it shimmering around her now.

"Captain Jones said he'll dine in his study."

Mrs Jones doesn't pout or scowl, she just inclines her head to the side and looks as if she is arranging some puzzle pieces in her mind.

"Would you like the table set or—"

"No, no, you can just bring me a plate."

"Of course. Anything else?"

"Could you have a bath ready in the Captain's room? Say, in two hours?"

"Of course."

"And a bottle of wine. No glasses."

Ruby ducks her head a bit to hide her grin.

"Of course," she says and tries to make her escape.

"Oh, and Ruby?"

"Yes?"

"Please, stop trying to make me choke to death at the breakfast table."

Her laughter spills just as she slams the door shut behind her and Ruby shakes her head against the hard wood. In her head, she admits herself bested. Emma Jones has much more than a little mischief in her.

/

He finishes adding up the numbers in front of him before he answers the light knock on his door.

"Thank you, Ruby, I have everything I need."

The door opens anyway and he looks up with a heavy sigh.

"I can stoke my own fire."

But it's not Ruby in the doorway. It is startling and downright terrifying how quickly the sight of his wife makes his thoughts scramble again and something warm bubble up inside him.

"That's a pity."

"Emma, love, just another—"

He glances at the clock to find it already inching towards 8 in the evening and looks back at her in surprise.

"You've been patient."

"I was taught that ladies shouldn't beg for attention."

She saunters toward his desk and Killian's feels his Adam's apple go up and down slowly. He would have never described her as predatory before but it's the only word that comes to mind right now.

"And you should certainly never have to."

He reaches his hand toward her and when she takes it, Killian tenses in preparation as his brain easily conjures up an image of her slipping into his lap.

But Emma circles behind him instead and lets go of his hand, settling both of hers on his shoulders, and Killian tries to bring some discipline into his wildly improper thoughts. It's little wonder that all day he has struggled to keep focused on any task or idea that didn't involve her in some way.

The feeling of her fingers digging into his flesh do little to help him pull himself together though they do wonders for the tension in his muscles and he can't help leaning back and into her touch for a few minutes.

"You'll be pleased to know, you have been a terrible distraction all day."

Her hands stop their tantalizing movements and he almost curses himself.

"But I haven't disturbed you at all."

"Aye. But it would appear the phrase "out of sight, out of mind" does not hold as true as one might hope."

"I-I'm sorry."

She is still behind him and it takes him a second to realize that she sounds genuinely contrite and a little guilty. Killian turns around and tugs on her hand to bring her face to face with him. Her upper teeth are firmly imbedded in her lip and she looks very much like she expects a scolding.

"Oh, love, I was merely joking," before he can think better of it, he pulls her forward until she is standing between his legs and reaches up to cup her cheek. "It is certainly the truth but I am certainly not upset about it."

He laughs a little, watches her face and posture relax, and shakes his head.

"The idea of it."

"That I can be a distraction?" she asks, the teasing slowly seeping back into her voice.

"That I can be upset about it," he replies seriously and rises slightly so he can kiss her.

That doesn't go quite according to plan – not when Emma's hands find his shoulders again and she leans down, pushing him deep into the leather of his chair and her tongue deep into his mouth. After a minute and before he has managed to prepare at all, she is sitting in his lap, two layers of skirts bunched up around them and making it frustratingly impossible for him to get his hand on anything but her back. Thoroughly dissatisfied with this, his fingers quickly and somewhat clumsily start tugging at the laces they find there.

"I suggest you don't start unless you intend to undo them all the way," she says, her lips brushing his on every word.

Killian's groan rumbles through the both of them, seeming to extend and change pitch as it mixes with Emma's giggle.

"I have two more of these."

He sets his wooden hand on top of his desk with a little bang, somewhere in the vicinity of the last protocols he has to go through.

"Should I leave you to it then?" she pulls back and when she bites her lip this time the message is completely different.

Killian glances furtively between the woman in his lap and the papers on his desk a few times. He is just about to close his arms around her and stand up with her still glued to him, when Emma's face softens and settles into a calm understanding.

"I'll wait upstairs," she kisses him quickly on the forehead before he can protest and stands up, trying to smooth her skirts and hair into some semblance of respectability.

She is almost at the door, Killian still torn between finishing his work so he won't have it weighing on his mind later and just rushing after her, when she turns around and points her finger at him.

"If the water turns cold, you are getting in it alone."

He almost tips over his inkwell in his hurry to get pen and paper.

/

When she hears the door open, Emma crosses her ankles and nonchalantly lifts her feet in the air, the skirt of her shift pooling around her knees. She doesn't turn around but listens carefully as Killian takes a few steps inside and then stops abruptly. It takes every bit of willpower she has to not get up and face him as the seconds tick by. Then she hears the sound of the buttons of his vest being undone, the heavier fabric rustling against his shirt as he shrugs it off and then tosses it on the bed. That seems to be as much as she can take.

Emma rolls over and props herself up on her elbows.

"You're in a hurry," she says lightly as she watches his fingers work on the top buttons of his shirt while his eyes slide from her toes to her eyes.

"You seem to have made considerable progress in undressing, love."

She slips to the end of the bed and hops off nimbly.

"I was getting bored."

"My apologies."

She reaches him in a few strides and her fingers brush his lightly.

"Would you like some help?"

He seems to hesitate for a moment, his eyes flickering between hers, making Emma frown slightly in confusion. She doesn't wish to disparage his intelligence but she thinks the nudity included in bathing is only now fully dawning on him. But after a few seconds, he drops his hand to his side and Emma feels a surge of triumph and tenderness in her heart.

Each button reveals more skin and some black and grey hair that seems to conveniently pave the way for her. By the time she undoes the last one it has started to narrow and lighten and her fingers brush the top of his trousers, feeling him suck in his stomach. She slides her hands back up, marveling at how impossibly hot his skin feels against hers, and moves to slide his shirt off his shoulders. His hand instinctive reaches for it when his left sleeve catches on the contraption that holds his wooden hand in place but Emma pulls it over with ease and tosses it somewhere behind her. By the sound it makes, she assumes it doesn't land on the bed but she cannot possible be bothered right now.

Her palms run shamelessly over his exposed skin and then halt and go slowly, carefully over his left side again. She feels Killian stiffen slightly and his right hand settles on her elbow, whether to pull her away or keep her there she doesn't think he has even decided yet.

It's one decision that she is willing to make for him as she gently runs the pad of her pinkie finger over the deep gorges in his flesh – their edges are raised slightly, while some patches of skin around them feel unnaturally smooth. There must be at least a dozen of them, scattered from the top of his ribs to his waistline. Half of her is grinding her teeth in anguish but the other half is somehow still wondering if there are more hidden lower down.

"It was an explosion."

His voice is slow but it startles her from her trance of exploration and her hand clamps onto his side unconsciously.

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't really hurt anymore, love. You can squeeze as hard as you want."

She squeezes his flesh experimentally, watches him take two breaths in quick succession and tries to reign in her sudden desire to tear the rest of his clothes off without delay. Emma has never imagined that she will have so little control in a situation like that – not because someone else is in control but because she can barely hold the reins of her own impulses.

But there is still a tenseness, an apprehensiveness about Killian that does a better job of cooling her down. So instead of moving south, she goes east and lightly skims her fingers over the leather straps and buckles of his brace before she looks at him – questioning, imploring.

Killian doesn't so much hesitate as he seems to embody hesitation itself – his eyes run rapidly all over her face, skirting into her hair when that becomes too much, his breathing is a bit deeper, as if he is consciously controlling it, and his left side is absolutely still. She can sense his turmoil but she wouldn't have little evidence of it, if it wasn't for the light trembling of his right hand.

All that considered, she expects him to say no and she knows she can't push him on this, no matter how much she wants to prove that it's not any sort of obstacle to anything but his own peace of mind apparently.

So when he gives her a quick nod she doesn't so much hesitate as she jolts with astonishment and a sense of awe that she'd never experienced for a human being before she met Killian Jones.

When she undoes the first buckle, his hand slips to her waist – to steady himself or her or, most likely, both. After all the tension she could feel building up inside and around them, the task itself takes her mere seconds.

It's after – after she has pulled the straps down and gently taken the brace off his forearm and set it aside – that Emma takes her time, frowning at the indents that are left behind from the rough leather and rubbing her thumb over them thoughtfully, counting the little wounds similar to the ones on his side – only deeper, longer, and the spots that are smoother and different in colour.

This time her fingers don't move with lust but with reverence and she feels them tremble slightly at the thought of how close he must have been to not being here at all.

"Emma—"

She moves closer, her hand taking his stump like she would his hand, her front pressing fully, firmly against his arm until she can drop her forehead against his shoulder. It's when her lips press against his skin that he turns to the side and wraps himself around her.

"It's alright."

/

And for the first time since he woke up in a whirlwind of fire and water and some men screaming for their lives while others screamed for death, Killian actually feels like he is. Alright. He doesn't feel torn in half, he doesn't feel like that half is still left there – to be drowned or lost or at least hidden. He is all present. He cannot be anything but. Now that she has given him her permission – more, her acceptance, her care, her love he is starting to think, starting to believe – he can't conceive of not touching her with every part of him, not being here with every part of him.

He didn't think he still could. And yet – here he is – fully here, glad to be here just as he is, bloody overjoyed by it.

Her cheek feels like flower petals against the bark of his arm, he ducks his head and kisses hers, moves lower still to press his lips against her shoulder in return before his nose slowly pushes her sleeve of her shoulder. He pulls his stump from her grip, feels like the damaged skin knits further together at her reluctance to let go, and uses it to push the fabric off her other shoulder, making her shift fall in a heap at their feet.

He likes to think that the blush on her cheeks is only half shyness and half the delicious and absolutely torturous anticipation that he can feel pumping his own blood faster. She doesn't pull away or make a move to cover herself but just lifts her shoulders lightly, as if to say "well, this is it."

And, frankly, Killian feels like he is a young lad again, gentleman in him having taken flight as his eyes roam shamelessly over her pale skin, the gentle curves of her breasts and her hips, the hills of her collarbones and her lower ribs, the light silver lines on her hips and the fine blonde hairs on her arms and legs. He licks his lips and starts to bend his knees when her hands reach for the ties on his trousers.

This time he helps her and quickly kicks away the rest of his clothes.

"Oh."

Her eyes are wide – surprise and interest and a touch of apprehension as she peruses the rest of him and Killian coughs at the strange combination of embarrassment and gratification lodged in his throat before he settles his hand and forearm on her waist and starts slowly guiding her backwards.

"I think you made a certain point about the water getting cold."

She nods wordlessly and lets him maneuver her beside the tub. He urges one of her legs over the edge and then the other and watches her sink in to her neck, the sound she makes somehow simultaneously piercing his heart and his groin.

He couches down beside her and gathers her hair in his hand, the ends of it already a few shades darker just like he imagined them, and lets it spill over the edge of the tub.

"Are you going to share, love?"

She smiles and draws her knees up to make space for him.

Killian lowers himself in slowly, making sure the water doesn't overflow and feels her legs reach out to spread on top of his almost immediately. It's probably not a perfect fit but that's exactly what it feels like.

He looks to the side, he laughs when he sees the small table beside the tub, equipped with washcloths and soap and a tall bottle of red wine.

"Ruby's forgotten the glasses."

"No, she hasn't," Emma reaches for the bottle, dripping some water onto the floor, and takes a dainty sip before she sends him a challenging look. "I thought we were sharing tonight."

"We are married, sweetheart, we're always supposed to share," he shoots back and steals the wine in one bold sweep. "She brought up the good vintage as well. We should thank her tomorrow."

He takes a generous gulp and passes the bottle back to Emma, reaching for one of the washcloths.

"Would you like some help?" he echoes her question and reaches under the water, sliding his left forearm under her leg and lifting it up to rest her heel on his shoulder.

Emma's eyes grow deeper and darker at the stretch and she scoots a bit closer, her other leg starts to run lightly up and down his own, making him lose his rhythm whenever it slides over the inside of his thigh and repay her by dipping his hand under the water and over the curve of her own.

For a few minutes they manage to walk the thin line over which they exchange the washcloth and the bottle of wine and actually get clean. It's when he turns his back to her – her legs on either side of him and her hands dropping all pretense of washing him as they slip around him and down the wet hair on his torso.

"Emma."

"Yes?"

"You don't have to—" he coughs when her hand moves lower still, his thoughts fluttering around like scared – or overexcited, pigeons with no sense of purpose or direction.

"But can I?" she whispers, settling her chin on his shoulder and nudging behind his ear with her nose.

"O-of course, but—"

And then her hand wraps around him and his ability to ascertain or protest is unceremoniously shot, along with all the pigeons.

"Can I make you feel as good as you made me feel?" she asks curiously, innocently, and all he can do is groan and nod.

Her hand has started moving and it has been way too damn long since he has felt anyone's touch but his own. Ages. Ages since he felt one he wanted to. Ages since he wanted to at all.

"Can you tell me how?"

He groans again, squeezes his eyes tightly shut because the sight under the water would certainly end this much sooner than he wants it over, and leans back against her, turning his head to the side to find her mouth.

She is right there – warm and willing and smiling against his mouth the way she did the first time.

"Tell me."

She licks his bottom lip and squeezes him a bit tighter and he cannot wait to teach her – about his body, about hers, to have her teach him, but right now he can't gather his brains enough to tell her anything but the truth.

"Emma, it's been— Bloody fuck," his eyes snap open but she just grins mischievously at his slip, certainly more delighted than offended. "It's been way too long since I've…"

"Done this?"

He nods.

"Do people do this?"

He leans his head to the side and smiles at her before she makes him swear again.

"Aye. If they… well, if they enjoy… each other and things like this."

"Do you?"

He nods again.

"And because you haven't done it, it's… better?"

His laugh is choked and breathless, she doesn't stop her movements as she performs the Sex Inquisition on him and he loves her for it. He loves her as he buries his face in her wet hair and kisses her warm flesh and comes into her soft palm. He loves her all the moment before and all the moments after.

He takes a few seconds – to bask in a number of things.

"It's easier for me to feel… the way you felt, when it has been awhile."

"But it was awhile for me too," she says, a thin trail of embarrassment in her admission that he kisses away languidly.

"I don't think it works quite the same way. I think we should research the matter further."

It takes them another minute or two to realize Ruby forgot to leave them towels.


	16. Chapter 16

They stand stark naked with their backs to the blazing fireplace – drops of water still rolling down their bodies and joining the wet marks left by their feet, the wood crackling, the clock ticking, the wind outside gentle and serene in comparison with the night before. For a couple of minutes neither of them says anything.

Emma keeps stealing glances at her husband, trying and failing to keep her eyes from wandering over all the parts of him she'd never seen before tonight. Maybe, if this is to be something they share all the time – and she doesn't even pretend that she hasn't crossed her fingers and made a dozen childish wishes for it – there might come a time when she is not constantly drawn to and infinitely curious about Killian Jones. But, in all honesty? She very much doubts it.

When her eyes are averted, she wonders if he is looking at her out of the corner of his eye as well, if he wants to know every curve and every freckle on her. She supposes she should feel rather narcissistic and self-indulgent about those thoughts but it's not like that. It's just that Emma has wanted to be wanted so many times but never like quite like this and never with so much hope that it might actually come true.

So they keep standing there like children who've been caught in their mischief until her eyes dart to the side again and his do as well and their gazes meet – wide-eyed and undeniably interested. And then Killian barks out a laugh so loud and boisterous that Emma jumps in place, watching him with surprise for a few seconds before she joins in.

She turns around to face him, trying to will away the nervous sparks that shoot all along her limbs, trying not to wonder what he sees now that he _is_ looking at her – if he _likes_ what he sees.

It takes her by surprise again when he moves first, his hand reaching out to brush her hair over her shoulder, but it also gives her the encouragement to step closer. Killian follows suit, slipping his hand more firmly in her hair, working his fingers between the strands, and Emma wonders if she should tell him how much she likes it when he does that. She has never been one for complicated hairstyles but she is willing to learn just to have him undoing them like this each night.

"Are you cold, love?"

She shakes her head and takes the last step that brings her chest flush with his – the sensation of skin on skin is unlike anything she has ever experienced and she isn't quite sure if it's because she has never been so close to someone, so intimate with someone, or simply because it's him.

His arms lock around her and Emma lifts up on her toes so she can capture his lips, unashamed of how greedy and possessive her kiss turns as she bites lightly on his lower lip and wraps her hands around his neck, pulling him further into her. The sparks along her skin have multiplied and lost all their bashfulness, spreading only heat and pleasure and the desire for more. She lets one of her hands wander down his chest, relishing the feeling of the damp hair that guides her until she trails the back of her fingers over his cock in a feather light touch. It's hard again it's smoother than all the rest of him, except for some of the scars along his arm, and Emma feels both eager and even more out of her depth without the water to ease her movements.

She dips her head to watch what she is doing and gets a little distracted – fascinated, by the sight. She thinks Killian won't mind if she asks him how to proceed but before she can formulate her question, he encircles her wrist with two fingers and pulls her hand up. He presses an openmouthed kiss to the inside of her wrist and flicks his tongue lightly over the spot where her pulse is throbbing so hard she can feel her whole body vibrating to the rhythm.

"Now, now, Mrs Jones. I believe we established a "quid pro quo" policy."

She swallows and runs his words through her mind two times in an attempt to divide their meaning but in the end the best she can manage is focusing on his eyes.

"What?"

Killian just grins at her and it looks like a promising combination of indulgent and predatory. He moves with slow determination – bending his knees slightly and slipping his arms from her waist right under her ass, keeping his eyes on hers as he starts to lift her up. The hand she has on his neck grips harder and Emma swings her free arm around his shoulder but doesn't gasp or squeal, instead she leans into him, crosses her ankles and tries to keep her legs out of his way as he turns them towards the bed and crosses the distance in a few heavy steps.

As she sinks into the blankets, she thinks there is just something better about Killian's bed – it's not that it's more comfortable than hers, though it is somewhat bigger – it's that it doesn't feel like a bed at all. Try as she might, she can't chase away the thought that now it feels like somewhere she can hide from any storm.

Killian crawls up after her until Emma can feel the heat of his body shimmering above her and she unconsciously arches her back, seeking contact. If he notices, he chooses to ignore her silent plea in favour of brushing his nose over her damp hair, kissing her forehead and then tentatively, maddeningly patiently caressing her nose with his mouth. When he passes over her lips, she tries to sneak her tongue past his lips but he quickly continues down to her chin and when she reaches to grab his face and drag it where she wants it, he intertwines their fingers and presses their hands beside her head and the best she can do is burying her free hand in his hair. She means to tug but it really ends up being more of a caress that encourages him to keep mapping her body with his lips.

Frankly, it's far from a terrible fate, but Emma can already feel an impatient itch crawling up her sides and down her legs, a need to have more of him, all of him. So she hooks her ankles around his and slips her foot up his calf in a move that she hopes is seductive rather than awkward. She feels Killian's lips tick up against the hollow of her throat and she feels him breathe the words "devil woman" between her breasts. But, before she can scoff at that, he finally opens his mouth and closes it firmly around her nipple and the sound she makes is anything but a scoff.

He spends such a long time lavishing attention on her breasts that a distant part of Emma's mind tells her she should probably protest. Fortunately, that part seems to have little sway over the majority of her thoughts which make her clutch him close to her skin, wrap her legs tighter around him and moan little that isn't her encouragement and his name. And when he does finally pull away and returns to scattering maddening little kisses along her ribcage, she barely aborts the growl that rises in her throat.

"I was enjoying that," she says gruffly instead, surprising herself with even that small amount of eloquence.

Killian slides further down, so she has no choice but to let her legs release him and fall to the sides, and then he looks up, his eyes meeting hers across the expanse of her naked body. Any thought of modesty is obliterated by the elated sparkle in his dark blue gaze and the way he nips lightly at her belly.

"I'm hoping you'll enjoy this as well."

Emma's eyebrows pull together before he lowers his gaze and noses at the light curls between her legs. Her gasp is so sharp that she hears his neck pop as he sharply pulls away, a confused fear in his eyes that he hurt or frightened her. Emma swallows heavily and tries to alleviate his fears the way she alleviates her own – by asking him about it.

"Is this… is it— is it done?"

She squeezes his hand, their fingers still linked beside her hip, and curses herself in her head.

Emma doesn't care if it is done or not. It seems unlikely that she could care less about what anyone else does in their bed in this moment. She can feel the warmth of his shoulders where they press at her inner thighs, she remembers how it felt when he touched her there, she knows how it feels every time he kisses her and – why, it seems a bit odd and unconventional and it gives a whole new meaning to the word "intimate" in her mind, but then she just had a bath and she feels soft and clean and, when she thinks about it, she doesn't mind him kissing her all over at all.

When she thinks about it, she feels like an idiot for stopping him.

Thankfully, her husband is not an easily swayable man. He just props his chin on her hip bone and looks up at her calmly – as if they have all the time in the world to talk about this, if she'd like.

Emma would really like him to continue doing whatever he intended to do to her.

"It can be. Technically there are no rules about… these sort of things. But we do not have to, if you don't like the idea."

"No," she replies quickly. "I mean, no, umm… I don't mind."

She goes to roll her eyes at her own lukewarm response but Killian's eyes twinkle with amusement and some sort of knowledge that he looks eager to share. And then he dips his head down again and Emma gasps again, only this time he doesn't pull back, he leans into her, his left forearm urging her legs further apart and his hand squeezing her own.

Emma tries to watch for awhile – the sight is even better than that of her hand wrapped around him, but in a few seconds her other senses are much too overwhelmed and she finds herself squeezing her eyes shut and tipping her head back, her nails digging into his palm as her other hand reaches blindly for him, unwilling to interrupt but desperate for contact – her fingertips barely brushing his hair.

She feels a puff of warm air and the sound that reaches her ears must be the definition of improper, and then there is Killian's voice.

"Remember how this works, love? You tell what you like and what do you don't."

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Emma nods frantically, her hand reaching to push him back and her fingers bumping his nose. She feels his laughter spread from his heaving shoulders to her trembling thighs and her entire lower body seems to be aflutter and she doesn't know if she could control it, even if she wanted to.

"You like this?"

He turns his head to the side and nips at her thigh and she clamps her legs a bit tighter around him.

"Yes."

"And this?"

Suddenly his lips settle on that spot his fingers had quested for last time, wrapping around it and sucking it in, and she gulps in way more air than she needs for just the one word that leaves her lips in a hiss.

"Yesss."

Killian hums in agreement and she chokes on the damned air and doesn't care – not right now, not when all she cares around is the feel and sound and – she opens her eyes, suddenly needing to look again – the sight of him between her legs. Her thighs are trembling on either side of him and Killian finally releases her hand to take one of her ankles and put it on his shoulder like he did earlier, his stump running up and down her other side in a soothing rhythm.

She doesn't think anything can soothe her right now. What is more, she doesn't want to be soothed. She wants that incredible rush again, the euphoria of the world disappearing and leaving just her and him and everything her body is apparently capable of feeling.

He pulls away and she doesn't even try to stop the whine that comes out of her, slipping the leg on his shoulder further down his back so she can use it as leverage to get him back where she wants him. Killian allows her to pull him half-way before his eyes meet hers.

The impressed and delighted look on his face sends a thrill over her body that also culminates where he is breathing against her. He kisses her gently, lightly, barely making contact at all, and she digs her heel into his shoulder blade. And then she feels his tongue over and inside her.

"Oh, fuck! Killi—!"

/

After a time that she has yet again lost sense of how to measure, she feels his fingers run gently over her stomach, her muscles fluttering in their wake, and his lips press a wet kiss against her shoulder.

"Did I curse?"

His laughter reverberates around them.

"Like some of the oldest sailors I know."

"No."

It's half a question and half mortification that she feels too good and mellow to summon right now. He laughs again – and her lips pull up, her heart cataloguing the frequency of the sound and delighting every time it rises – and tugs her closer, her warm and relaxed body all too willingly molding itself to his.

"No. You were rather tame. I can teach you a thing or two."

"A fine thing to teach a lady."

"Well, I—"

The knock on the door is unexpected and unwelcome and the only thing on Emma's mind is that Ruby can keep her towels to herself.

"What is it?" Killian's voice is calm but there is an unmistakable dismissiveness in it that says the desired answer is most certainly – nothing.

"Captain Jones, there is a letter for you. It's… it's urgent."

Emma has never heard Ruby sound so uncertain before. Killian looks at her with a confused frown and kisses her quickly before he gets out of bed and tugs on the first shirt and pair of trousers he can get his hand on. He doesn't put on his brace and Emma clings to that fact and imagines that in a minute he's going to slip back between the sheets, all the while feeling in her bones that it's a naïve hope.

Killian opens the door slightly, standing in front of it to keep her own of sight but Emma is already looking around for her nightgown. She gets out of bed and quickly shrugs it on as soon as Killian shuts the door and tears the corner of the letter with his teeth.

Emma is sure she would have had thoughts about this, if it wasn't for the ball of anxiety gathering in her belly and drowning out everything else. She watches his face go slack and lose colour and his fingers crush the edge of the paper they are holding and before she can get to him he is already shrugging his shirt off and now the brace is going on and Emma doesn't understand why the world wouldn't just let them laugh in bed for a bit longer.

"Killian, what is it?"

He doesn't reply and she flinches at the way he pulls hard on the buckles at his shoulder.

"Don't—"

Her hands reach to stop him and for a second she is sure he is going to flinch back or push her away. But then her eyes meet his and his arms drop to his sides and as much as the wretchedness on his face tears her heart in two, she takes advantage of the moment and loosens the leather biting into his skin and does the buckles as calmly as she can.

"It's Alice."

She is glad to have completed her task for now her hands are most certainly not steady enough for it. She watches in amazement as he tugs his shirt back on and does his buttons with one hand faster than she can follow with her scrambled and terrified thoughts.

"Wha— What's happened? Is she coming home? Is she alright?"

But Killian's moment of stillness seems to have passed and he is going around the room, collecting his jacket and tugging on his boots with jerky but efficient movements.

"Killian!"

He mutters under his breath about needing something and rushes out of the room. She follows him.

The sound of her bare feet against the floor echo after him and the cold spreads up from her toes. Emma only remembers she is wearing nothing but a cotton nightgown when she feels the chill in the hallway leading to his study but she doesn't turn back.

Killian comes out of the room before she can enter, almost barreling into her. His hand grabs her arm to steady her and it feels like the beginning of a caress that doesn't have time to be.

When he tries to run on, she seizes both of his hands and pulls him back.

"Tell me if Alice is alright!"

She doesn't mean to yell but she can't regret it when she sees his eyes snap to hers and clear just enough to read and answer the fear in hers.

"She is safe. I just have to go," he steps closer and pulls her into him, his chin settling on top of her still damp hair for a second. "I'll make it alright. I promise."

"Let me come with—"

"No. I'll make it alright."

He presses his lips hard against the top of her head and heads for the door. It's wide open, Peter is waiting outside with Roger's reins in hand. Ruby and Mrs Lucas are already there and the old woman hands Killian his coat without a word.

"Killian, please—"

He turns to her but Emma can't bring herself to ask. If she asks, that makes it a question, that means there is an alternative.

So when he presses his forehead to hers and tells her he will come back without her having to ask, she knows she has never loved him more.

/

Old Mrs Lucas looks like she wants to murder and skin something, Ruby is eating her nails till she tastes blood and the new mistress – well, Peter tries not to look too much at the new mistress. She is wearing naught but a thin white shift and Captain Jones is already looking like thunder come to life. He'd rather have the storm last night twice over than that look on the master's face.

All the same, Peter is not worried.

Captain Jones is a dark shadow of iron will and determination as he mounts his stallion and rides off at a breakneck speed and Peter has known since he was a little lad – already marked for the gallows by everyone who'd met him, constantly beaten and punished by Mrs Blue for making up games that were too loud and made all the other orphans jump on their hard beds – that there is nothing to be worried about when Captain Jones comes to your rescue.

/

Ruby goes to close the door when Roger's dark shape has long since disappeared into the night but Emma's fingers grip the wood until her knuckles turn white.

"You'll catch your death out here like that."

The other woman looks at her blankly before she blinks a few times and lets her hands fall to her sides. She hasn't looked so much like a ghost since her wedding day – the whiteness of her clothing almost matching the colour of her cheeks, her eyes wide and confused and just a little afraid. She looks smaller, colder.

Ruby tries to shake off her own worry, still her restless hands and swallow the lump in her throat so she can reach for her and tell her that everything will work itself out. But Emma just waves her off and starts for the stairs.

When she reaches to follow her, Ruby feels her grandmother's strong and firm grip on her arm.

"Let her go."

"She is—"

"Aye, let her go and try to get some sleep. We'll bring her a good breakfast in the morning and set her straight."

Ruby watches Emma's bare feet disappear over the last visible step and sends a silent prayer that she does manage to sleep and not dream.

/

She looks at the unmade bed – one pillow is on the ground, the sheets are horribly wrinkled and damp in places where they tumbled onto them only half dry. She doesn't understand how she could have been in this bed less than half an hour ago – blissfully happy.

Then she sees the letter dropped at the foot of it. The paper is already clutched in her hand before she stops to consider if Killian would want her to read this. For a moment, her eyes water with the effort of not looking at it, then she decides that secrets are not something that has ever stood between them for long.

It's not a letter. It is barely a note.

_Mother knows._

She feels the word blur at the edges and she sits heavily on the edge of the bed without having decided to do so. Reality seems to waver and contort horribly, incomprehensibly, twisting itself tightly around her throat.

"How…"

Emma doesn't understand. She is gone. She can't possibly—

She remembers the ashen look on Killian's face and crumples the note further into her hand, her nails puncturing the paper.

Emma has never had reason to explore certain dark places inside her, has never even known if they exist at all. But in this moment she knows with perfect clarity that if Eloise Gardner – she isn't Mrs Jones anymore, that isn't hers anymore, _they_ aren't hers anymore – is still somehow in the flesh, Emma will wrap her own two hands around her and drag her as far away from Killian and Alice as her legs can go.

The image doesn't scare her and doesn't make her feel guilty. When she opens her eyes and looks down, her hand is steady. That's when she sees the envelope on the floor and the name written on it.

_Miss Robyn Hood_

Her breath rushes out and the vines around her lungs loosens as she falls back into a world she understands and the knowledge that nobody is going to try to take her life from her. She takes a few minutes to get her heart and her breathing under control, to clear the dark images from her mind, to smooth out the sheet of paper and leave it on the desk in the corner.

It is only when she buries her face in Killian's pillow and pulls the blankets over her head that Emma knows for certain that this bed feels no better or safer than any other without her husband in it.

/

"This is all my fault."

"It's definitely not—"

"It is not your fault."

His voice brooks no argument but the look in his eyes is what makes them settle down.

"How far?"

"I don't—"

"Robyn. Calm down, give me the names and get in the carriage."

She does. He has already kissed his daughter's forehead and promised to make it right, buttoning his coat and preparing to leave with them, when she barrels into him. She is taller than Alice, almost as tall as him, but she buries her head in his shoulder in the exact same way – like she trusts him to keep her safe from the world.

And he will be damned, if he doesn't.

/

Granny Lucas wakes up before dawn and lets the household sleep. She brings Ruby and Peter a cup of tea and tells them to stay in bed awhile longer, then she starts preparing the mistress's breakfast.

In the period that she has now marked off as "after Alice and before Emma" Killian Jones spent the vast majority of his time in his office or at the docks and yet, his unexpected and indefinite absences have always upset the balance in the house.

She goes through all the rooms, airing them, letting the breaking sunlight in and watching the specks of dust dancing around like they do every morning – no more, no less. She stokes the fire in the kitchen, dries the last of the cutlery and fills the whole space with the strong smell of coffee that still seems foreign to her nostrils. All the rooms are still here, furnished and heated, there is food in the pantry and flowers in the vases and yet, she can feel the tipped balance as well as if the floor had shifted overnight. Everything feels exposed somehow.

As if the house is there but it no longer has a roof over it.

/

The knock on the door comes later than she expects it. She has been lying in bed, wrapped around a pillow, staring at the tub that they forgot to have taken out, and wondering if she should sleep in her own bed while he is away. The very thought makes her clutch the pillow tighter.

The second knock is louder, almost commanding in its sharp, compact taps.

"Come in."

Emma barely glances over her shoulder but, when her eyes land on Granny instead of Ruby, she instinctively pulls the blankets higher around her, before recalling that she was running around the entire house in her nightclothes just a few hours ago. For her part, the old woman seems too busy glaring at the tub and empty bottle of wine and the general mess left around and clicking her tongue disapprovingly.

When she turns her gaze on her, Emma feels the need to sit up in bed and comb her hair behind her ears. Granny watches her for a few moments before she sets the tray down. It's toast and cold meats and there is coffee in her cup instead of tea but what startles Emma is that the old woman takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

It's not that she minds. It's just that Granny's presence is pulling on thoughts that have been festering in her mind since she woke up and Emma feels them unfurling like a dropped ball of wool between them now.

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

/

Granny frowns at the woman before her. Truth be told, she's never liked weak creatures – ones that couldn't even take care of themselves, let alone anyone else – they pulled at her pity alright, but never at her heart. Truth be told, she was convinced for quite some time that Emma Jones was one of those creatures.

She knows better now. She is too old and has seen too much to refuse to accept and admit that she too is mistaken sometimes. She still doesn't know everything about the young woman sitting across from her but she knows enough to say that Emma takes care of those she loves and she is anything but weak. Granny is certain that she has been made to feel so, that many a person has tried to _make_ her so, but she is equally certain that they have not succeeded.

Emma might have been bent but she was never broken and Granny has been watching her straighten her back from the moment she set foot in this house. It's why her slumped shoulders irritate her so damn much right now.

"I couldn't— I told you I wasn't going to let his heart be broken again but I can't… I don't have that power, do I?"

Granny ignores the tug on her own heart and scowls at her.

"Now, you straighten up and listen to me, missus," she waits until Emma rises her tearful eyes to hers. "You intending to pack your bags and go back to your wicked old witch of a grandmother?"

"What? No! Of course not," Emma's eyes narrow and she sits up straighter with indignation. "Why would—"

"You planning on taking your jewels and nicking some of the silver and running off with someone?"

The green eyes boring into her skull darken and flash dangerously and for the first time Granny thinks that this woman can run much more than a household.

"How dare you—"

"No, you don't," Mrs Lucas replies for her, giving Emma a look that she hopes will tamper down the flames without completely extinguishing her fire and let her know that the idea is equally unimaginable for both of them before posing another that she truly wants an answer to. "Do you plan to berate him for leaving in the middle of the night and—"

"No," Emma grits out, crossing her arms in front of her chest in a combination of affront and petulance. "I wish I— I want to _help_, I—"

"That's all you can do to help," Granny says matter-of-fact. "World we live in? That's the most a woman _can_ do. Be faithful, resilient, support and love."

Emma opens her mouth to protest but the old woman just smiles at her – wan and a little bitter but genuine none the less.

"I know. A woman like you wants to do more, can do more, if she were allowed. And, Lord, it's a good thing you're married to who you are. He never minds a woman who doesn't know her place. Will probably let you captain one of his ships, if you asked, and trust you to do a damn fine job of it too."

For the first time since Granny walked in, some of the tension seems to leave Emma and she softens – not with exhaustion and worry but with bashfulness and affection.

"But that's not quite how the world works. It ain't that fair yet, if it ever will be."

Mrs Lucas never hesitates, it's not in her nature – she does or does not, she learnt long ago to trust her instincts and her gut. But she hesitates now. And then she goes with her gut anyway and reaches over to take Emma's thin, white hand into her rough, wrinkled one.

"But it ain't completely heartless either," she says with equal measures of hope and conviction – each trying to fill the gaps where the other runs out. "And, in my experience, good people do get what they deserve."

"When?" Emma asks with some doubt, with a childlike innocence and a lack of self-consciousness that tells Granny she is not asking for herself and makes her squeeze her soft hand.

"Eventually," she says with a touch of levity

Emma scoffs a little but doesn't pull away, her lips curling up half-heartedly.

"One thing I can tell you – I've lived a good while and I've never met anyone as strong as that man. He has been knocked down and risen every single time and, God knows I didn't think I'll live to see it, but he has even found it in himself to be happy again," she gives Emma a pointed look over the rim of her glasses and is secretly satisfied with the light blush it earns her. "And he has come back every single time, even when he didn't have anything to come back to. Ain't no way he won't come back now that he does."

They sit there in silence until Emma nods and Granny sees that the hope in her eyes is more belief than dream now so she nods as well, pats her hand and gets up, clearing her throat and straightening her apron.

"Now, you eat your breakfast. I'll send Ruby to clean up here and do your hair and then you two go shopping like you planned—"

"No," Emma says firmly. "I'm not going out."

They stare at each other for a few moments, Granny's eyes narrowed while Emma's are firm – not aggressive but completely unrelenting. The old woman sighs.

"Suit yourself. Just don't go digging a trench around the whole damn house again."

/

It takes him almost a week to take care of everything. He sent Emma a letter once he knew this will take more than a couple of days – telling her that Alice was alright and not to write back, that he will be back as soon as he can.

He already knew what else he'll have to tell her but he wanted to be man enough to do so in person.

So once he has dealt with everyone, he checks on the girls one more time and starts the long ride back with a heavy heart. Even Roger is exhausted from the week they've had and Killian can't lose himself in the adrenalin of a fast and dirty ride. No, instead he gets to make his way home steadily, with the full knowledge that, after just starting to earn his wife's affections, he has already failed her.

/

Emma throws her book on the cushion beside her and drops her head back with a groan of frustration.

She should put out the fire and retire but she has made herself get out of Killian's bed every morning by promising herself that she won't have to go back to it alone and she has already broken that promise half a dozen times.

Since yesterday she has been tempted to invite Mary Margaret over for tea, company, distraction – but, despite the fact that her friend was significantly more benevolent and accepting of her husband and her new life the last time she visited, Emma cannot put up with the possibility of having to prove herself and defend Killian right now.

Admiral and Mrs Jones are abroad and, if she had to wager a guess, she'd say that Killian hasn't told them anything's the matter. And it's not that Ruby and Granny are not pleasant enough company, it's just that she can see they are just as anxious to know what on earth is happening as she is.

She is more than a little annoyed with the shortness and vagueness of the only letter she has received from Killian and has envisioned more than a couple of conversations on the merits of communication in her head in the last few days. She is envisioning one right now and it is not going well for him at all.

The very real sound of hooves outside makes it disappear like morning mist but Emma doesn't move. She closes her eyes and listens carefully and doesn't breathe until she is certain that the sound is moving closer. Then she jumps up and runs.

/

The night is dark and the house looks asleep when he finally draws near. Roger snorts and slows down and Killian leans closer and pats him on the side.

"Well done, boy. We're home now."

He didn't send word that he was coming back because he didn't want everyone waiting into the small hours of the night and now he plans how to take Roger to the stables without waking Peter and then, whether he will have to watch himself when entering his own chambers. He tells himself he doesn't know if he wants to find his wife in his bed or not, but then, just as he is getting off his horse, the door is flung open and Killian knows himself to be a despicable liar at the very sight of her.

This time, when she barrels into him and flings her arms around his neck, the strength of it almost knocks him over and he does not hesitate to wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her tresses. For a moment, everything that needs to be said and done disappears and the only thing that matters is that he has her. He has her in his embrace and, no matter how much longer he will be able to keep her there, Killian allows himself this – her hand cradling the back of his head, his lips pressing against her soft hair, her light form pulling him into her with startling force.

When she pulls back, her eyes are swimming with tears and he is not sure he has a tongue to speak with at all. For the first time, her hands feel burning hot as they press against his wind-rough cheeks and all he can smell is the cocoa on her breath.

"Killian."

His grip on her waist tightens instinctively at the sound of her voice.

"Are you alright? Is Alice alright? Is she coming?"

He swallows once, twice, while her eyes desperately search his own and her thumbs keep running little semi-circles under his eyes. When he finally opens his mouth to reply, she surges forward. She doesn't waste her time with soft presses of lips either, her tongue slips into his mouth as if retaking possession and he can barely meet her halfway, stumbling slightly into her and trying to remember that he can't just throw her to the ground and have her in the garden for the first time, even if he had the strength for it.

It's only when she shivers lightly against him that they break apart, breathing heavily in each other's space, clutching at fabric separating them from skin.

"Everyone's alright. Go inside, love. I have to take care of Roger, then I'll be right along and I'll tell you all."

She looks at him for a long moment and then drops her forehead heavily against his chest. He runs his hand up and down her back but before he can urge her to go in again, she pulls away and takes his horse's reins.

"Emma."

She starts for the stables and he just curses under his breath and sheds his coat, running after her to drape it over her shoulders.

/

She can tell Killian is nervous. Emma wanted to get him inside and into bed the moment she touched his cold cheeks and felt him swaying with exhaustion. But they took care of Roger first and now she is pouring a dash of rum into the tea she hopes will warm him up a little, but instead of heading up the stairs he asks her to join him in the library.

"Killian, we can talk tomorrow. If Alice is alright, I can wait to hear everything else. Let's get you to bed."

She tugs on his arm and he stops with his hand on the door but he doesn't look at her and the set of his shoulders screams of more than just a long journey.

"I need to tell you tonight."

"You're tired, let's—"

"I am! And I won't be able to sleep until I've told you what I must."

The harshness in his voice threatens to tear at her own nerves but she doesn't pull back, instead, she brushes past him and walks into the library. Killian sighs heavily behind her and follows but, when she takes a seat on the settee, he keeps pacing.

Emma watches him silently – if he thinks he should be talking instead of resting, he can do all the talking himself. Instead he puts a few logs on the fire and goes to the window to pull the curtains slightly open though there is nothing to see outside but blackness. She grits her teeth and wills herself not to push.

Finally, he sits down. He shudders slightly and Emma doesn't know if it's the cold still clinging to him or the late hour and the lack of sleep and the exhaustion in the dark circles under his eyes – it's also probably the fact that he takes a seat in the armchair in the corner rather than on the settee beside her – she doesn't know what pushes her that last inch but, when she speaks, it sounds like an order from the school mistress.

"Drink your tea."

Killian blinks at her in shock and she doesn't know what she expects but the slight quirk of his lips is definitely not it. He gets up and takes the tea she left on the table but then he returns to his side of the room and Emma hasn't actually cried while he's been gone – she has been close but she has maintained the belief that there was nothing for her to cry over – but she thinks she might do so now, looking at the distance between them that shouldn't be there anymore.

To his credit, Killian takes two large gulps of his tea before he sets the cup on the floor. His hand starts fiddling with his wooden one. He looks older – the lines around his eyes deeper, with a tension born of more than just years, his hair and beard are longer and more unkempt, for the first time, she thinks he looks pale and almost irreparably tired.

When it comes, his voice is rough but strong and clear and it sounds like he is reading a letter instead of talking to her.

"My daughter and Miss Hood were spotted together while at target practice. Apparently, they believed to be alone and had… allowed themselves to be more affectionate with each other. The man who spotted them knew little about Alice but enough about Miss Hood to go directly to her mother. To put it lightly, she and I have different understandings about how one should treat and instruct one's children."

Emma admires how Robyn managed to communicate more or less all of that in two words but she appreciates Killian telling her the whole story. What she doesn't appreciate is that he has chosen to do so from a safe distance and without making eye contact with her. She thinks he must be aware that she is in complete agreement with him on the matter and still she is about to say so when he continues steadily on.

"I apologize for the manner in which I left but—"

"You don't have to—"

"As you might imagine, time was of the essence. By the time I got there, the informant and a friend he apparently brought along for moral support, Mrs Hood and her lady's maid were all aware of the situation and searching for the girls."

"Did they…" she doesn't even know how far people might go in persecuting two young girls for the grievous offence of being in love.

"They never went back to their lodgings but stayed at an inn instead. Their maid told no one but me where to find them. And I… I have now installed them in a small house out of town that should do just fine for now."

Emma can't help but shake her head in amazement, she can't imagine that procuring a house at such short notice is an easy feat. Or ensuring that the girls will be safe there, for that matter.

"Won't they look for them?"

"No," Killian says with finality before he chances a quick look at her – the certainty in his voice completely at odds with the thick anxiety in his eyes. "As I said, I knew the extent to which the information had spread. From then on it was merely a matter of buying off the informed. I remained in town a few more days to make sure that nothing else would be said or heard about it."

"Alright," she says slowly and waits for him to look at her again but Killian just takes his cup and finishes the rest of his tea and rum. "So you fixed everything just like you said you would. So why do you look like a man who is about to hang?"

He chuckles darkly and this time, when he raises his eyes to hers, she jumps up – the pain in his eyes tugging her sharply forward.

"Don't."

"Killian…" she hovers a few steps away from him and doesn't understand why he won't let her soothe him, doesn't understand what is eating at him to begin with.

"I did this with the full knowledge that it will make me break my promises to you, Emma."

She frowns in confusion.

"City people are not easy to buy. And the reputations of two beautiful young girls are not cheap. I—"

"This is about _money_?" her voice goes hysterically high and she might wake up the whole household but she doesn't care, not when this is beyond ridiculous and she feels the anger and hurt rising up inside her.

How could he possibly think that she—

"It's not just money. It's… bloody hell," his voice finally loses its strength and Killian runs a shaky hand through his hair. "You didn't know me, when you married me, Emma. The only thing I could promise then – the only thing I _did_ promise – was to protect you and to provide for you."

"Killian—"

"And the only thing you've asked me for since is my time and now I can't fulfill that promise either. I'll have to balance some affairs, go into town, sell some stocks. I… there is no way we can afford to go anywhere anytime soon—"

"God, shut up, _shut up_!"

She moves forward and drops on his lap and she doesn't know if she is going to slap him or kiss him until her lips slam into his. His cheeks are warmer now, his nose still cold and she whimpers at the feel of it, at the taste of him, at the reality and solidity of Killian all around her. When he seems to gather himself and starts to return her kiss, she pulls away and pushes him back into his chair, her hands pressing hard on his shoulders.

"You might be the kindest and strongest man I've ever known, Killian Jones, but I swear, you are also the dumbest," his eyes widen comically and she would be proud of herself except that her voice wavers over her next words and her hands slip away from his shoulders, resting so lightly over his chest that she can only feel the brush of the fabric and not his body underneath. "Do you really believe that I care about all that?"

"Emma," he says her name like it pains him. "Love, that's not— It's not an unreasonable… No woman would be content to have circumstances altered like this and not—"

"But you did the right thing!"

"I—" Killian frowns and seems to consider her words for a second before his shoulders drop slightly in what Emma prays is some relief and she feels the light brush of his thumb over her waist. "I know. I could never consider an alternative but I'm glad you think so. I'd— I hoped that might…"

Emma shakes her head and moves forward, pressing her lips against his forehead and then leaning against him.

"Are you listening to me?" she asks and waits until she feels him nod against her. "I do not care about honeymoons and trips abroad and holiday homes and whatever other nonsense you seem to think you're depriving me off."

"I—"

She presses her mouth to his – hard and admonishing, before she continues.

"I do not care about what house we live in and how many rooms it has and how many people the dining room can sit. I… Yes, I wish to have you and your time but I _understand_, I understand that you have obligations and responsibilities with which I cannot help and I don't— Killian, it doesn't matter. As long as you come home to me at the end of the day. I do not care how big or comfortable the bed I sleep in is. I just care, if you are in it."

She takes a deep breath and looks him in the eyes, imploring him to see the truth in hers and believe it. Killian takes his time, his gaze running over her features – frantically at first, then slower, calmer, until the tightness around his eyes starts to disappear for the first time tonight.

"Because you love me."

Emma blinks in surprise and feels something inside her settle with a sigh of relief, realizes that, in the back of her mind, this entire conversation felt like him questioning her love – something she thought he believed in, even if he didn't fully reciprocate it.

But he doesn't say it like a question, he says it softly, like all the implications of it are only now sinking in.

"Yes. Because I love you. Very much."

Killian swallows, nods and sits up slightly, and she can feel his chest under her palm and his heart beating steady and true. He cups her cheek and runs his thumb tenderly over her skin and now there is another tightness around his eyes – one that comes with the smile inside them.

"I love you too, Emma."

Oh.

The world seems to tilt slightly towards him, the blue of his eyes becoming the only stable thing in it as everything else – past, present and future, seems to swirl around her, changing and rearranging and becoming bigger and brighter and better than Emma has ever thought the world could be.

There was a time in her life when she thought if she could only hear the words once, it will change everything – her, her life, all the dreams and possibilities that were meant to be there but somehow never were and she was too scared to call them forward. At some point, she stopped believing that the words held the power to change anything – perhaps, very likely, because she knew she'll never hear them.

Killian Jones has been changing her world since they met – slowly, beautifully, making her believe again – but, she's learnt not to think too much about the words, not to long for them.

And now here they are and, for the first time, Emma sees that with the right person they change everything and nothing.

"Emma?"

She blinks rapidly and feels the tears roll down both her cheeks. Killian wraps his left arm around her and brushes them away, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes full of worry and the only love she has ever known.

The sound that comes out of her is half a whimper and half a sob and in the next moment she clutches him almost violently in her arms, pressing her face against his neck before she thinks better of it and pulls back to kiss him, her lips escaping the confines of his without any finesse.

"Emma."

He sounds happy and confused and there is part laughter in the sound she makes this time.

"Could you—" she swallows, clears the raspiness out of her throat and feels the warmth in her heart bloom all over. "Could you say it again?"

He seems confused for a split second before his face clears and he captures her lips in the softest kiss they've shared tonight.

"I love you, Emma. With all my heart."

He must find the disbelief in her eyes because he kisses her again and looks at her imploringly.

"I'm sorry I didn't say it when—"

"Oh, no," she shakes her head and pushes the hair off his forehead and tries to pull him closer still even when it seems impossible. "I just… No one's ever…"

She sees the realization in his eyes and she is content that the shock and sadness give way quickly, give way to that tenderness and awe that she has only ever found to exist in Killian's eyes.

"Well, it would seem that I'm the most privileged fool."

Her soft laugh is lost in the kisses and vows of love he scatters all over her face.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: This whole chapter is basically a "they touch" warning.

* * *

After a few minutes of holding her in his arms and feeling the soft skin of her cheeks under his lips, Killian finally feels the anxious coil in his stomach unfurl and let him breathe properly. Breathe with the knowledge that he hasn't fumbled beyond repair, that he hasn't fallen too short, that he hasn't ruined this tender thing – this_ love_ – brewing between them. The knowledge that his wife will stand by him no matter what – it's foreign and overwhelming and incredible.

With the last of his tension seeping away, he finally feels the brunt of the last few days – the pounding behind his temple, the burning in his eyes, the ache along his left side, the shakiness in his legs even as he is sitting down. His head swims a little and he feels himself lean further into her. The rum in his tea and the warmth of the fire and the woman on his lap are certainly not helping matters.

He tries to shake it off and push the exhaustion down. He blinks rapidly and flexes his fingers on her hip and runs his hand up and down her side. Killian realizes what this moment means to him, he can only imagine what it means to her and he doesn't want to bring it to an end just because he feels his eyes staying closed for half a second longer after each blink.

He can still feel the fluttering of her hands, the little sounds she makes as she presses closer to him and the way her eyes watch him – in awe, in disbelief, as if she is still trying to wrap her mind and heart around this. It makes his own heart constrict painfully in his chest and he kisses her again and again and swears to himself that this woman will never know another day in her life in which she doesn't know how loved she is.

So when he feels the impulse pushing on his jaw, he embraces her and tries to hide his yawn in her hair – if the way she laughs softly against him is anything to go by, he is woefully unsuccessful.

Emma pulls back far enough to run her eyes over him and her right hand comes up, caressing his face from the roots of his hair to the beard that he has let grow much longer than usual in the last week.

"Can we finally get you to bed, captain?"

He lifts an eyebrow and tries to give her a teasing look but he thinks his eyes can't open wide enough to execute it properly. The mirth on her face says that he is not wrong.

"Come on."

She stands up with finesse that Killian can't hope to imitate right now so he is more than willing to let her pull on his hand and wrap her arms around him as he gets up and sways a little on his feet. Emma doesn't say anything but the way her eyebrows draw together and her hold on him tightens perceptibly is admonishment enough.

She lets him go only to put out the fire and Killian looks around for something to do with himself, careful not to let his eyes stray to the settee and the temptation to just let himself lay down and stay there for a few hours. Eventually he sees the cup next to the leg of his chair and bends to pick it up. When he straightens, Emma is standing before him with a candle in her hand and her eyes still dancing with something very much resembling amusement. Her fingers gently pray the little porcelain from his hand and set it on the table and he can't find it in himself to protest as she leads him out of the room and up the stairs.

/

He stumbles twice going up the stairs and the only reason Emma doesn't feel guilty for not sending him to bed the second he got off his horse is that she would've hated for those doubts and fears to fester in his mind even a moment longer.

That and the fact that it's hard to distinguish any other feeling through the all-encompassing joy and wonder vibrating in the air around her even now. It feels like his words have been etched into her flesh, into every inch that his lips touched, and her smile comes unbidden when Killian sits heavily on the bed but doesn't let go of her hand, bringing it to his mouth instead. She knows at this point he is barely awake and aware of what he is doing but somehow that only makes it sweeter and harder for her to pull away.

She returns to him with a wet washcloth, trying for efficiency as she helps him wash his face and hand, and huffing in fond exasperation when he yawns again and nuzzles into her touch, his hair falling into his half-opened eyes.

"You're terribly distracting," she mutters under her breath and is met with Killian's only semi-conscious but very firm denial.

Fortunately, she doesn't need help getting out of the simple dress she is wearing and makes quick work of changing into a nightgown and combing her hair. Her gaze runs over the comb and pins and bottles of perfume before her, realizing that she has brought more and more of her possessions into his room. She hopes he doesn't mind – she knows he won't, but she makes a note to ask him properly tomorrow. She doesn't think posing the question now will do much good.

Her suspicion is confirmed when she turns back around and finds her husband right where she left him – his real and wooden hands braced on either side of him, applying all the concentration and energy left him in sitting upright.

Emma leans her head to the side and thinks that she has never seen Killian Jones so stripped of all defenses – not when he told her the darker parts of his story, not even when he finally let her see all of him, and she feels her chest expand with the sweet knowledge that he trusts her like this. The absolutely precious sight he makes might have some effect as well.

She closes the space between them, runs her hands over his arms and presses her lips against the top of his head. The touch seems to bring him back into the present and he looks up at her, blinking slowly, his eyebrows scrunched up in endearing confusion as she smiles at him and starts undoing the fastenings on his vest.

"Oh, right, right," he shakes his head and raises his hand to take over the task but Emma just steps further between his legs and brushes his fingers away. "I can… I can do that, love."

The way the endearment drags and slurs a little at the end seems to prove otherwise but as she pulls the vest off his shoulders and sets it to the side, Killian stubbornly and determinately bends down to try and tug his boots off.

He doesn't lose his balance but it takes him a fair amount of time to take care of just one and, when he reaches for the other, Emma kneels beside him and stalls his hand.

"Killian," she cradles his face in her hands and waits for his eyes to focus on her. "You've taken care of everything and everyone. Let me take care of you now."

He frowns for a long moment, trying to puzzle out her words, and when his eyes turn a little glacier she doesn't know if it's fatigue or emotion swimming in their blue depths. But he turns his head to the side and presses a kiss against one of her palms and doesn't fight her when she works off his boot and then his socks. His eyes slip closed while she undoes the buttons of his shirt and he helps her tug it off his shoulders without conscious thought.

The straps crossing over his left arm are again tighter than she'd done them when he left and Emma scowls a little as she unfastens the buckles, pulls the brace off and gently rubs at the pink welts left behind.

"Emma?"

"Hmmm."

He pulls his arm away and wraps it around her, tugging her into him somewhat clumsily and Emma presses her laughter into his neck as she feels them tip backwards onto the mattress.

"Missed you," he presses the words into the crown of her head and Emma feels her heart squeeze and sigh happily at having him so close again.

"I missed you too."

He hums and nods – pleased and sleepy, and she waits for a few minutes, running her fingers through the hair on his chest and the pale scars on his side, until his breathing deepens and his grip on her loosens and she can slip away and finish undressing him. Coaxing him into one of the sleep shirts she digs out of his wardrobe requires some slyness and maneuvering and brings forth a fair amount of not entirely coherent grumbling from Killian – she is certain she picks up something about how they should both be unclothed at all times and she cannot wait to turn that on him in the future.

Eventually, she blows out all the candles in the room and slips between the sheets, shuffling closer and nudging Killian onto his side so she can wrap her arm around him and press her chest against his back. As her fingers slip easily between the black and silver strands of his hair and her legs fit themselves between his, Emma feels her own muscles finally relax – warmer and more peaceful than she has felt in days.

/

She is at sea. The vast and serene horizon seems to stretch on for eternity and the blue waves lull her deeper and deeper into sleep. She knows she must be asleep because she has never seen anything like this with her own two eyes. It's marvelous.

She looks around – she is on solid ground and yet gliding on the surface of this borderless ocean, and she wonders if there is such a thing as a floating island. She wants to ask Killian – Killian will surely know.

The blue of the ocean loses some of its lustre and allure as she pictures his eyes and, after another look around, she decides that she wants to awake. Squeezing her eyes shut, she breaths in and smells lavender and burnt wood and Killian, and willingly lets it all pull her away from her dream.

/

Emma blinks her eyes open slowly and sees the morning light coming in fresh and bright – the skies finally clear and almost as blue as the ocean of her dreams. They must have shifted in their sleep – Killian is lying on his stomach, face buried half under his pillow and snoring lightly, while she is draped half on top of him, feeling the gentle push and pull of his breath as his back rises and falls under her cheek.

She inches up until her nose brushes the nape of his neck and breathes him in, her arms tightening around him as she recalls the mounting disappointment of waking up without him for days. Emma stays like this for a while and wonders how she ever managed to convince herself that she did not want this. She supposes it was easier – to tell herself that marriage and family and love simply weren't meant for her and she wasn't going to spend her days being bitter and resentful over it – before she actually knew what it all felt like.

She has spent entire days in this house marveling at being warm and welcome, but it is nothing compared to the kind of warmth that comes from having this – from knowing that he feels as she does. It is almost incomprehensible – the idea that someone can love her as much as she loves him, but then again, if she can believe it of anyone – it has to be Killian.

The sun rises leisurely but faithfully – higher and higher, and yet Killian barely stirs. Emma slips quietly out of bed eventually, freshening up and venturing into the kitchen for a cup of tea and to make sure everyone knows that Killian is back.

Peter has already broken the news after seeing Roger in the stables but it doesn't take away from the large smile on Ruby's face or the glimmer in Granny's eyes. She smiles and tells them Killian is making up for lost sleep and chases everything else to the back of her mind. She has already decided that she will talk with Killian and, if there need to be changes in the household, she will take that responsibility off his shoulders – but those are thoughts for tomorrow.

When she returns upstairs, Killian is still dead to the world and she takes the book she was using to put herself to sleep while he was gone and slips back on her side of the bed, propping herself up on a pillow. She thinks he must be waking when he rolls over and reaches a hand out for her but he just shuffles closer to press his face into her thigh and wrap his arm around her leg, and settles back down, leaving her staring down at him and sensing that her heart resides somewhere other than her chest now.

/

Killian wakes up into a dream. He cannot remember the last time no part of him ached for some more rest, the last time his head was so light and clear and his body so engulfed in warmth and comfort – he feels years younger and better than he thought possible.

Gradually he takes stock of his surroundings – the hand running absentmindedly through his hair, the dip where his hand is wrapped around her knee, the scent of lavender and soap and Emma's skin where his nose is pressed against her thigh, the softness of the mattress, the hardness of his cock.

Last night comes back to him, his mind ordering and calculating as his heart seems to immediately call out for the woman beside him. He wraps his arm around her waist and pulls himself up, burying his face in her stomach and kissing her through her nightgown. Emma gasps in surprise above him and he grins against her as he nuzzles further into her.

"God, you better not still be asleep."

He laughs and looks up at her, his heart finally content as he drinks in the sight of her – pale skin, golden hair, the top of her gown undone and her eyes shining down on him as she pushes his hair off his forehead and bends down to press her lips against his. Killian raises himself on his elbows and meets her half way – trying to pour the longing of six days of not waking up beside her into his kiss.

When he pulls back, there is a question in her eyes, lit by expectation and exhilaration and so much tenderness that he almost goes to hide his face against her again. Instead he focuses on the question and, without letting his mind weigh in on the matter, he takes a firm hold of her and tugs her down. The surprised, breathless sound that leaves her lips makes him press himself against the inside of her thigh until it turns into a moan that he is determined to hear again very soon.

She doesn't need much time to fall into step with him and before he knows what's happening, her hands have slipped beneath his shirt and are urging his arms up and the fabric over his head. Her skin is warm and so very soft as he kisses the curve of her shoulder and reaches under her shift, running his hand over her inner thigh until he finds something in his way.

"Emma," it's not quite a whine but it's probably the closest he has ever come to sounding petulant. "I thought you weren't fond of undergarments."

Her laughter is crystal clear and absolutely delightful.

"A woman goes without one time and rumours start spreading."

He leans his head to the side and studies the pink of her cheeks and the way her breasts rise and fall rapidly and thinks that there can be nothing about her that he will only want one time.

"I merely wish to encourage and promote your comfort, love."

"But, of course," she says in a tone that tells him that his motives have been judged and assumed to be much less pure. "Perhaps you can take a more active role in promoting my comfort."

Emma angles her hips up and he wastes no time in dragging the offensive garment down her legs, while she gathers the ends of her gown and whisks it over her head.

"Bloody hell."

He slips his hand and stump up the beautiful curve of her waist and plants his lips in the space between her breasts. Her hands cradle the back of his head and guide him shamelessly to her breast and Killian grins proudly at her boldness, only too happy to oblige her.

By the time their lips meet again and his hand slips between her legs, stroking and teasing, he finds her wet and pliant, her legs spreading wider to make room for him to settle between them. Killian pulls back and swallows roughly before he finds her eyes, trying to temper his own desire and gauge hers.

"Emma—"

"Yes," she nods briskly.

He hisses in surprise and pleasure, dropping his head on her shoulder as she runs her nails lightly over his nipples and down his chest, before making quick work of his laces, their feet kicking each other without much coordination while trying to get rid of his pants.

When her fingers skim lightly over his cock, he rushes to capture her wrist and pull her hand away, setting it over his wildly beating heart.

"Aren't we—"

"That we will, love," he says breathlessly and presses his lips to hers for a second. "Are you certain?"

She nods again but there is something almost regretful lurking in her eyes that Killian is not willing to ignore. He skims his own hand over the place where her heart is beating hard before he gently presses his fingers against the edge of her jaw, the question written plainly on his face.

/

She sees the hesitation on Killian's face and feels it in the way he holds his body over hers – tense and unmoving, and she is not sure she can put into words how certain she is about this, about him. How much she wishes she knew that it could feel like this – when you trust someone, when you want to please them and know nothing would please you more than being with them.

Her fingers curl where they rest over his heart, as if they could gather it in her grasp.

"I just… I wish I'd only ever been yours."

"Oh, Emma," his face shifts and his eyes soften, his palm inching up to cup her cheek as he leans down and kisses her softly. "You're mine now and I'm yours. And I want you just as you are."

She feels her eyes fill with tears as her heart settles even further into his possession and protection and when she surges up to capture his lips, there is nothing soft or cautious about her kiss. She strokes her hand over the small of his back and presses down and, thankfully, Killian seems to understand because in the next moment his hand moves between them, his fingers running over her center once more before she feels him press himself against her. He kisses her cheek and bring his lips below her ear.

"Tell me, if you need me to stop, alright?"

She nods even though she finds it hard to conceive of a world in which she would want him to stop now. As he starts pushing inside, she sucks in a sharp breath and feels his hand flex where it has settled on her hip.

"Alright, love?"

She swallows, focuses on his eyes and lifts her hips up. He slides the rest of the way with a slight burn that dies down as she feels him come flush against her. He kisses her forehead and the bridge of her nose and then slips his tongue inside her mouth, rocking gently against her without really moving.

She has imagined this – more and more as the weeks passed, but her fantasies – let alone the memories that she has tried to suppress – are nothing like the real feel of it – shattering and soothing and almost unbearably full. When his lips trail down her neck and press against her chest, the laugh bubbles out of her breathless and joyful and she feels Killian's smile against her heart and his warmth all around her and inside her.

It's a moment that stretches endlessly with his hips pressed into hers, his forehead resting above her chest and his deep breaths pushing into her as they stay locked together. Slowly she brings her hand to the back of his neck and starts to explore the sensations inside her, squeezing her muscles around him.

Killian's moan sounds almost pained as his hand moves up to her waist and squeezes her in turn.

"I'm sorry."

His chuckle is choked and heavy and she feels it inside. _Fuck._

"What are you sorry for, my queen? Feeling absolutely divine?"

He lifts his head and looks down at her – his eyes are almost black and his tongue runs quickly over his lips and Emma knows she has never felt more wanted in her life. She has also never wanted more.

He pulls out as he kisses her again and then slowly slides back in, again and again, building something she can't quite identify until little sounds start bubbling out of her on every push, until both her hands clutch at his back at every pull.

"Killian, Killian. Oh, please, I—"

She can't find the words for what she wants from him – she wants more, she wants exactly this, she wants this for an eternity, she can't stand it a moment longer.

"Tell me. Tell me what you want, Emma."

"I— I don't know."

He grabs her ankle and guides it to his waist, she follows his lead and when he rises up slightly, sinking deeper into her, she thinks that _this_, this is what she wants, but then he leans forward, the hair on his chest rubbing against her breasts, and _that_, that is what she wants.

What she wants keeps changing but it always seems to be exactly what he is doing.

"Love, I can't—"

She can't hold the whimper that leaves her when he pulls back and sits up with them still joined together. His hand moves between them and strokes her right above where she can feel him until he finds that spot and she fists the sheets on either side of her and tries to keep her eyes on him for as long as she can – his hair is an absolute wreck and the pink lines down his chest and stomach are probably her doing and she has never imagined that she could find sweat appealing – but then he presses harder and she drops her head back. Some part of her mind is aware that she screams out but she has no notion of what or how loudly and she does not care – no part of her cares about anything but the feeling coursing through her body and Killian, Killian, Killian.

She is panting for breath, her legs have slipped back to the mattress and her hands are reaching and trying to hold onto him as he pulls her hips closer – his movements less fluid and much faster. When he leaves her completely she is caught somewhere between a drawn out moan and cursing his name. She watches him wrap his hand around his cock and move sharply up and down – it looks almost painful and she instinctively reaches to replace his grip with her own.

"Fucking hell. Emma— please, love."

He seems willing to relinquish control then, leaning back down to kiss her – his lips more desperate and demanding that he has ever been, and Emma has barely found a rhythm when she feels him spill himself against her thigh, his breath leaving him quickly and his whole weight pressing down on her for the first time.

"Heavens above."

She giggles and presses her words into his sweaty hair.

"You must decide if I am from heaven or hell eventually."

Killian groans and laughs against the hot skin of her neck, his lips and tongue pressing hard against her pulse and drawing a needier sound than she thought herself capable of. He lifts his head, his hand coming up to push the damp strands away from her face, and smiles at her.

"You are neither. You are mine."

The words send another small wave of pleasure through her whole body and when he goes to lift himself off her, her arms and legs tighten around him, unwilling to part with the feel of him. Killian pretends to resist her for a moment before he huffs and pillows his head on her chest again, looking at the world outside.

"Christ, how long was I asleep?"

Emma slips her hand over his neck and tugs on the ends of his hair.

"You needed rest."

"I need to sort—"

Her hand covers his mouth, his fingers hooking under his chin and drawing his gaze back to hers.

"Killian, my heart, not yet. Please."

He looks at her and nods, his arms slipping more securely around her as his shoulders soften again.

/

He manages to keep quiet as they clean up and decide that nourishment is not worth putting on clothes just yet. But as she settles into his side and he feels the gentle movements of her hand playing with the greying hair on his chest, he can't hold on any longer. He needs her to know, needs to reassure her and explain.

"The house is safe."

Emma sighs heavily and rolls further into him, crossing her arms on top of his chest and resting her chin on them. Her face is calm and her eyes watch him patiently and when he starts, he is not quite sure when he will stop.

"I will do everything I can not to let anyone go. Granny and Ruby, of course. Peter, if I can keep the horses. Otherwise I will send him to Liam but I don't think— I'll have to go into town. Sell some stock. That should cover most of it. Some art pieces maybe. I will have someone come take a look at— I will let you know beforehand, of course. Perhaps you can visit you friend Mrs Nolan or Elsa and—"

"Why would I have to visit someone?"

She sounds genuinely perplexed and he runs his hand up and down her bare back, marveling at the solidity and tenacity of her.

"It's not the most flattering affair. Having art speculators and dealers at one's house."

Emma's eyebrow rises incredulously and he sighs.

"Emma, I— I cannot tell you what it means to me that you… that you've taken this so well. But I want to spare you—"

"That's what worries me."

His eyebrows draw together in confusion and one of her hands comes up, running over the deep lines of his forehead in a move that sends him right back to the indescribable feeling of waking up beside her and feeling her hands on him.

"I don't want you to spare me anything. I want you to let me help."

"Emma—"

"I know I can't do much," she hurries on, self-conscious, almost contrite and he wants to tell her that she could probably fly, if she put her mind to it. "But I want you to tell me what you are doing. I want you to share the things that worry you and I want you to let me do whatever needs doing in the house – cutting expenses or welcoming art dealers or whatever it is that you decide on. Can you do that?"

He looks at her carefully. He doesn't doubt that she can do all that and more, as he studies the beseeching look in her eyes, he doesn't even doubt that she wants to. It is himself he doubts. Whether he will be able to let her see him trying to put things in order and potentially stumbling, potentially failing. Killian has long made peace with failure. It's the idea of letting others see it that makes his shackles rise.

Then again, he thinks, his failures are as much a part of him as his triumphs and for once he cannot bear the thought of cutting himself into parts – of having Emma love only some of him. With the weight of her form on top of him, the feel of her nails scratching lightly at his skin and her hair tickling his side, he has already grown greedy and he already wants all of her for all of himself.

"Alright."

"Alright?" she sounds cautiously pleased and he shakes his head in wonder.

"Aye. You can captain this ship with me – float or sink."

"Float or sink," she lifts herself up a little and sticks one of her hands out.

It takes him a moment to realize she wants him to shake on it and he stifles his laugh long enough to oblige her before he gives a sharp tug on her hand and kisses her firmly.

"You are a very peculiar woman, Mrs Jones."

She shrugs her shoulders and ducks her head and he puts his stump under her bottom and urges her up until she is hovering over him, her nose brushing his and her eyes unable to hide from him.

"And I love you very much."

Her smile is blinding and he just lets her grasp his face and kiss him to her heart's content. It's hardly a sacrifice.

/

"You're too good to me."

She rolls her eyes and smiles at the way Killian's eyes run excitedly over the plate she has set before him. It is the product of the only time Granny managed to persuade her to leave the home while he was gone, making that trip to the confectioner's with Ruby and picking all the sweets she was certain he will like.

"As if that were possible."

She gathers her skirts and lowers herself on the floor beside him. He has a complex mosaic of papers spread all around him and he hasn't had much other than toast and tea since they got out of bed but she decided to allow it since she was given permission to help and he agreed to put nothing but a pair of trousers and a flowing white shirt on. She makes use of the latter now as she sneaks her hand under the cotton and strokes her fingers over his side.

"Emma," it's a warning wrapped in a plea and she hides her self-satisfied grin in his shoulder and inspects the document in his hand.

"What is this?"

"It's my share in Captain Nemo's small fleet. This one should be easy. I'm confident Liam wouldn't mind taking it off my hands."

She doesn't say that Liam wouldn't mind helping him out without anything in exchange. She is certain Killian knows that and she is certain he will not take advantage of it and she doesn't fault him for it.

"It's other less conscientious gentlemen's businesses that haven't prospered all that well over the years that I might have trouble selling my shares from."

"How much did those two men want anyway?"

"Oh, it wasn't those prats that were hard to buy. It was Mrs Hood that drove the hardest bargain."

"Wait, wait," she pulls back and stares at him incredulously. "You had to buy off her own mother?"

Killian sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I don't wish to say that she has no love for her daughter but… it obviously doesn't extent to "this level of inconsideration, impropriety and depravity"."

She shakes her head in disbelief and Killian takes her hand and pulls her back to his side.

"I don't think many people would react much differently," he says with resignation and Emma presses her lips to his shoulder.

"I'm glad they have you."

Killian huffs a little and ducks his head, tilting it from side to side as if weighing her statement. He inspects the delicacies she brought and takes a bite of a candied plum before offering her the other half.

They spend the next hour arranging and rearranging their limbs in front of the fireplace, going through most of Killian's personal assets and devouring a questionable amount of chocolate and sugar-coated fruits and biscuits.

/

She is staring at the fire, watching a piece of wood snap in two and send up a small burst of sparks and dust, her hand finding its way beneath Killian's shirt again without conscious thought, when she feels his long fingers close over hers and still her movements. Emma looks up at him in question, before she feels the raised skin under her fingertips.

"Sorry. You said they don't hurt anymore."

She flattens her palm over his ribs, her thumb fitting perfectly over one of the horizontal scars.

"They don't, love. They are just ugly reminders of past pain."

She frowns.

"They are not ugly."

Killian scrunches up his face in a way that she thinks would look much more befitting on a much younger version of him.

"I know you don't mind about that. But you don't— you don't have to touch them."

She frowns harder and runs her thumb over the scar.

"I didn't mean to, my heart. I was just exploring. They are interesting."

She supposes that explanation is much more befitting of a much younger version of her as well.

"Interesting?"

He fixes his eyes on her, doubtful and somewhat suspicious, but she can see the little tendrils of amusement trying to sneak in. Emma just shrugs and slips her hand along his side.

"Well, yes."

Killian shakes his head but doesn't protest further. She slips her hand out and sets it over his left forearm.

"Does this hurt?"

When he doesn't flinch away, she gets at the skin underneath. There aren't scars at the end of his arm so much as it all feels like one big scar – unnaturally smooth in places and unexpectedly raised in others and undeniably strange to the touch.

"Sometimes," he answers her honestly. "It's not pain so much as… an ache. More after journeys or long days, I suppose."

She rubs the heel of her hand over the inside of his wrist and upwards, where the scars resemble the ones on his side and there are shallow welts left into his skin by his absent brace.

"Because you have it encased in all that leather and metal at all times. You don't have to wear it when you are home, you know?"

She doesn't want to overstep. She can't imagine what this feels like, if he wears his wooden hand for convenience or comfort or to hide from the world. But she is sure that having it on at all times can't be good for him.

She glances at Killian cautiously and sees him open his mouth to protest but then he seems to give her words some consideration, rotating his left shoulder and turning his wrist a little in her hand, as if testing the feeling of spending the day like this.

"Maybe."

It's more than she expected to receive right away, knowing how long he has dealt with and decided those things without having another's opinion.

"Could you promise me something?" she asks earnestly and, when he turns his head to look at her properly, she knows he is not giving her platitudes but means exactly what he says.

"Anything I can."

"Promise to tell me whenever you are in pain. Whenever you need…"

"Help?" he doesn't sound insulted or hurt, just a little perplexed.

"Me."

The corner of his mouth twitches but he lowers his gaze and poses the question to their hands.

"And if I need you always?"

"You don't," she tells him truthfully, expecting the frown and the protest gathering on the tip of his tongue. "But I hope you want me."

"More than you could ever know."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Bit of everyone in this one :)) Also - should this be E-rated now? Have I turned my slow burn period piece into feelsy porn?!

* * *

For all intends and purposes, Ruby grew up in the Jones household. She baked her first pie in this kitchen, she learnt to read along with lady Alice even though she was quite a bit older, she took the first book she ever read from cover to cover from Captain Jones's library and apologized through tears when he found her reading it only to be told it was hers now, she became a woman in this house on a hot summer morning, she had her first kiss under one of the apple trees, she snuck out the first girl she ever made love to in the middle of the night only for her to get lost and wake up the whole household upon her return.

Granny made her do all the washing for a month for that last one but Captain Jones just send Peter to help Dorothy find her way back to town and never said anything about it.

After her grandmother, there's nothing and no one in this world Ruby loves more than Alice and Killian Jones.

Thus, she finds it hard to describe the feeling that passes through her when the captain brings his small staff together and tells them that they will need to make some small changes around the house – it is as if her stomach swoops down and rolls in on itself and Ruby feels herself wobble a little on her feet. Granny is impossibly still beside her. It is the first time she has seen the grin that she thought permanent drop from Peter's face.

And it doesn't matter that she is still young enough to marry and it doesn't matter that she can certainly find work elsewhere. This isn't _work,_ this is her home. And in that moment, Ruby realizes that between her grandmother taking care of her after her mother ran away and Killian taking her in as soon as she could run around after Granny, she has never before been truly afraid.

"I hope you know that…" Captain Jones clears his throat and she feels every word like a nail being hammered into her heart. "I consider this your home as much as mine. So I have done everything necessary to ensure its safety."

The air that leaves her lungs is so audible and so close to a stifled sob that Granny glares at her from the corner of her eyes but Ruby doesn't care.

"That being said…"

Killian glances at his wife and Ruby almost feels guilty for having completely forgotten about Emma. Despite everything, despite how much she likes the new mistress, in that moment, Ruby realizes that she still doesn't see her as an integral and irreplaceable part of the family, as someone who will stay no matter what.

It takes seconds – Killian's look and Emma's assuring nod and the way his shoulders straighten and the way she steps closer – for Ruby to realize that Captain Jones most certainly feels very differently.

She is glad for it.

"There is a number of things to be done and I will be coming and going frequently in the following weeks. Meanwhile, Emma is going to take care of the household expenses and I hope you will all assist her where you can."

He gives Granny a look but the old woman just huffs and dusts off her hands as if she is done with the whole thing.

"Long as nobody messes with my cooking."

/

Emma does mess with her cooking. There is scarcely a thing that she doesn't mess with and Mrs Lucas has always considered herself a prudent and productive woman but that was before she encountered the single-mindedness of Mrs Jones.

She would grumble about it more, if she wasn't so damn impressed with the girl.

Granny never would've thought a woman could be so excited about cutting expenses and yet, here they are. She supposes it has more to do with actually getting to _do_ something, to be helpful and in control. She doesn't think Emma Jones has been made to feel like that often in her life. The fact that she obviously cares very little for the quality of table cloths, the oils for her hair or the salts for her baths probably makes the whole thing much easier as well and yet, Granny can't help but appreciate Emma's tenacity and dedication – the fact that, against all logic and circumstance, she seems happier than ever and Killian – more relaxed than Granny can remember him.

She appreciates how he lingers at the table at breakfast and doesn't linger in his office late into the night, how Emma's appetite has grown exponentially since she first dined at their table and her cheeks are a little more rounded and not quite so pale anymore.

Still, Granny acts sufficiently put upon when Emma does away with small costs that Killian would've probably never bothered with and sighs in genuine relief when the captain concludes his own affairs for the day and manages to redirect his wife's attention with a speed that gives the cook whiplash.

It's none of Mrs Lucas's business what the masters do behind closed doors but it is her business to prepare their chambers and Emma's hasn't been used in weeks.

And still, despite all that, despite her growing admiration for the girl and her pleasure in seeing her happy and believing that she has a voice and a right to things, there is still a murmur at the back of Granny's head. A little niggling whisper of worry that is both amazed and terrified by how much the captain obviously trusts his wife, how much power he has given her – over his home and over himself.

She sees it in the way he looks at Emma before deciding on his schedule for the day, the way he asks for her opinion when arranging for the dealers that come to look at pieces in the house, the way he lets her into his study – going through numerous pots of tea while he explains how shares and companies work, the way he tries to go to bed at a reasonable hour because she always stays up with him.

She sees the way he considers how everything he does and says might affect her, the way he seeks her approval, if not her permission. It is much more than the piqued interest of months ago, much more even than the obvious care and attraction of weeks before.

And – much as she has grown to trust and believe in Emma Jones – it worries her.

Mrs Lucas has been a widow a long while but not long enough to forget the bittersweetness of being married to a kind and loving man who still managed to almost bring them to ruin. She can remember loving and trusting before she learnt that the latter is not always so easy to earn as the former. You can love someone despite all their faults, you can even love their vices, but kissing someone under the dead of night and walking hand in hand with them through life is not quite the same.

So she worries.

She worries until the night she opens a door, a silver tray under her elbow, coming to collect the cups Emma took earlier, and sees them before the fire. Emma is leaning against the plush settee behind her, awake and alert, her eyes flying over the piece of paper in her hand that she is obviously trying to decipher, but it's Killian that the old woman can't take her eyes off of. A Killian Jones that she has never known. He is on his back, his head in his wife's lap, her fingers in his hair, a paper still in his right hand even though it's lying limply beside him, and his left arm resting across his chest, rising and falling with his every breath. Almost ten years and she has never seen him without the wooden hand at the end of his left arm, not since it was fashioned by his physician and brought to the house while he was still bed-ridden.

Granny shifts her weight, the glasses on her tray tinkle, and she sees Emma's hand move on instinct, leaving his hair to settle protectively over his chest, as her eyes fly to the door.

"Oh," she sighs and her shoulders relax again. "Is it quite late?"

It takes Granny a few seconds to swallow the lump in her throat.

"I'm about to turn in for the night, if you don't need anything."

"Yes, of course."

She should still collect the cups on the floor beside them but it seems inconceivable to her to move further into the room, to break into the space that is almost simmering with their intimacy.

So instead she nods and turns on her heel. She probably shouldn't look back, she has never felt more like an intruder in her life, but she is glad she does all the same – she is glad for the way Emma leans over, brushing his hair back and kissing his forehead, the way her whisper caries.

"The floor is not an appropriate place for sleeping, my heart."

/

Admiral and Mrs Jones return from their trip and Elsa asks Emma over for tea. She even invites Mrs Nolan – Mrs Nolan who she would truly love to meet before she is too far along in her pregnancy to leave her home. It is a good scheme but not quite so good that Emma doesn't see right through it. Elsa is to draw her out of the house so Liam can ambush Killian and convince him to take his money.

Killian laughs long and hard when she uses the inkwells and paperweights on his desk to explain this battle strategy to him. He does not disagree but he is also absolutely adamant that she should go, see her friends and take some time for herself. Overall he acts like she has been toiling in the fields for the last few weeks. She rolls her eyes heavenward but the pressure from all sides is too much.

That's how she finds herself watching with undisguised amusement as Elsa gushes over Mary Margaret's rather pregnant state and Mary Margaret praises Elsa's home and china enthusiastically and profusely. Knowing Elsa Jones, it probably shouldn't but it still shocks Emma when she shoots straight for the heart of the matter as soon as the tea has been poured.

"Liam won't have any success, would he?"

Emma just shakes her head.

"Success with what?" Mary looks between them in confusion as she takes a dainty sip from her cup.

"Oh, Killian has gotten himself into a bit of a bind and he won't let Liam get him out of it."

Emma purses her lips and tries to tempter down her annoyance at the regal and yet somewhat blasé way Elsa points things out and distributes information as if she is a flower girl in the last hour of daylight, rushing to rid herself of her merchandise.

"Oh, Emma. I'm so sorry," Mary Margaret sets her cup down and her hands flutter in the air for a moment before one of them settles on Emma's knee.

This time she can't help but roll her eyes toward the ceiling.

"It's quite alright. We have most of everything settled and no, I do not think Admiral Jones will be successful in his endeavour but," she spreads her hands, indication her very presence. "As you can see, he was given a fair chance."

Elsa's lips twitch in amusement at Emma's bluntness before she shakes her head.

"It must be a first for Liam to read someone better than me," she says, obviously not quite believing it herself and smiles at Emma's questioning frown. "Oh, I told him he would do well to have you around – no one wants a man's difficulties resolved faster than his own wife. But Liam claimed that he will have trouble enough with Killian and didn't need you backing him up, which you undoubtedly would, no matter his decision."

Emma feels her cheeks heat up but for the life of her she cannot tell if she is embarrassed or pleased by Admiral Jones's assessment. The moment passes as she runs Elsa's words through her mind again.

"You mean to say, you would urge Liam to do otherwise?"

"I mean to say that I have," Elsa responds calmly. "Age and other pleasures have mostly tempered his desires for it but Liam used to speculate wildly. And not always successfully. Killian and Captain Nemo have gotten him out of more than one mess."

She blinks in surprise, Admiral Jones has always seemed like such a stable and practical man to her. Then again, there is also a certain overconfidence about him that she can easily see leading to such pitfalls.

Still, Emma restrains herself from saying that, while she respects his desire to return the favour now, Killian's troubles have a much different source and she is not in the least angry or ashamed that he should want to fix everything himself. They've decided that the less it is known about the whole situation, the better, and while Emma trusts Elsa's love and commitment to the Jones name – even when they don't see eye to eye on all things marital – she cannot say that she has full confidence in Mrs Nolan's ability to keep much to herself. Speaking of—

"Mary, how is Mr Nolan?"

Mary Margaret is only too happy to talk about David's excitement over their growing family and almost as happy to question Elsa on all things Italian – from food and architecture to how suitable she thinks the climate for young children. Emma thinks herself well and truly safe from being the center of attention when she starts noticing the sly glances Mary Margaret is throwing her way and the calculating look in her eyes as she looks between her and Elsa.

"Emma, dear, you haven't written me in so long, I'm eager to hear about any new… developments in your married life. Other than that unfortunate business in recent days."

Emma frowns hard in confusion before the direction of her friend's inquiry suddenly becomes clear to her and her eyes grow painfully wide.

"Mary Margaret!"

She stares at the other woman in disbelief for a few seconds, consciously resisting the urge to put her hand over the lovebite on her shoulder that she knows is well-hidden by her sleeve. Then she glances at Elsa. The sparkle in the older Mrs Jones's eye is one Emma has only seen when she looks at Liam and thinks nobody is looking at her.

"Oh, splendid! I wasn't quite certain how open Emma might be to such a discussion—"

"I'm not—"

Mary Margaret's eager nod cuts her right off.

"It's just— you hear such stories from some women, I want to make sure—"

"But, of course! My friend Mrs Seaborne has just the lousiest luck in the bedroom."

Emma looks between the two of them in bewilderment and just shakes her head mutely.

"You're new to married life, Emma," Elsa says in that same tone that makes her opinions sound like law. "I should have invited my sister. After she has done talking no one worries about divulging too much."

"You mean to tell me you discuss what goes on… in your bedchambers over tea?"

Elsa and Mary Margaret share a look and, in that moment, she can swear they seem to have known each other for years. They look back at her and nod at the same time.

Emma slums back in her seat and blinks. Admittedly, she has never been invited to any tea parties but, despite her jesting with Killian, she never thought they included discussions of one's marital happiness. Let alone, that particular kind of happiness.

"Why, I— I'm not sure I feel comfortable with this," she admits honestly.

Mary Margaret waves her off.

"You needn't share everything, Emma. I… well, I've never done this myself but I know many ladies who— that is, I want to know you are being treated well and—"

Elsa is nodding along and Emma shoots her an almost accusatory look.

"You doubt Killian treats me well?"

"Oh, I'm sure he is the perfect gentleman but I have no notion of anything beyond his table manners and reluctant ball dancing."

"There is nothing wrong with wishing to be well-satisfied," Mary adds with a properness that doesn't match her words in the least.

Emma flounders for a minute, trying to make her decision. She is slightly mortified to find herself too proud of her newfound joy to refuse to acknowledge it.

"Well, then… if you _must _know, I'm quite— I'm very pleased with everything."

Mary Margaret's smile gradually dissolves into confusion.

"Whatever do you mean by "everything"?"

"You know there are a couple of different ways," Elsa says with the authority of one who has had such discussions before and engaged in those "different ways".

"Well, yes, there are different ways and different things," Emma supplies before she can think better of it.

And now both women are looking at her with wide eyes.

"Oh, you know, it's not all—" she helplessly waves her hand before her and feels her face burning.

"I think she means touching," Elsa almost whispers to Mary Margaret without either taking their eyes off Emma – their look is very much the one you give a foreign object from a different continent. "Do you mean touching, dear?"

"Well, yes, but also…" Emma sputters and looks all around and finally drops her face in her hands and groans.

It is in that moment that one of Elsa's maids knocks on the door and brings in some more refreshments and every part of Emma thinks she is going to use that as an excuse to get away from this conversation. So she has no clue where on earth the part that speaks when the door closes again comes from.

"You know you can be kissed… _everywhere_."

"Of course, but— oh!"

For the first time Elsa's face contorts obviously without her permission and the shock freezes her eyebrow high on her forehead. Emma blinks.

"Have you never—"

"Once or twice but—"

She is about to ask what Elsa means by that – once or twice every month or every week? She doubts it can mean every day – true, Admiral Jones seems much more at his leisure than Killian but still. It is the slightly glossy look that takes over Elsa's eyes that brings the sudden realization of her meaning to Emma.

"Whatever do you—" Mary Margaret's quiet voice draws Emma's attention to her friend and she watches the process of understanding play out across her features. "Oh. I didn't— I mean, we… Is it— Is it nice?"

Emma bites hard at her lip and nods vigorously.

/

"But Alice is alright?"

"Aye, they are both perfectly fine. They haven't seen any trouble or unwanted attention since."

Liam sighs and shakes his head.

"She never did do things the conventional way."

"Liam," Killian narrows his eyes and the hint of a warning in his tone makes his brother raise his hands in supplication.

"Never said she should, just…" he shrugs and rubs his temples for a few seconds before deciding that another sip of rum would do him better. "But Emma has been fine with it all?"

His little brother's face softens immediately and Liam makes a note of this magical way to mellow Killian down.

"She's been wonderful."

He feels something warm and serene spread over his shoulders at Killian's smile. Then Liam puffs out his chest and spreads his arms wide.

"I'm ready to accept your thanks at any point."

Killian sighs in what Liam hopes is faux annoyance as he takes his own glass in hand and crosses his arms over his chest.

"I thought we'd settled on—"

Liam waves him off.

"Not that."

"Then what laurels do you wish to lay claim to, brother?"

"Why, introducing you to your wonderful wife, of course."

Killian's eyebrows go high in amusement as he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his drink.

"In truth, you didn't exactly introduce us."

"I as good as brought her to your door," he fires back half in jest and grins at Killian's laughter.

"You spent every day between my proposal to her grandmother and our nuptials trying to convince me what a rotten idea the whole thing was!"

"Which I know is the surest way to make you do something, little brother" Liam finishes matter-of-factly, more than a little pleased with himself when Killian proceeds to open and shut his mouth in quick succession.

For a second Killian just watches him with narrowed eyes but Liam refuses to let the smug grin leave his face until his brother chuckles and shakes his head in defeat.

"Thank you for introducing me to my wonderful wife, Liam."

Liam grins – knowing he can't take any real credit for most of it does little to diminish his satisfaction with his brother's happiness.

/

It's a cold but clear day and there are still a couple more serviceable hours of daylight when he hears Emma come home. Killian leans back in his leather chair and starts counting back from ten with a smile that is just on the right side of expectant and far beyond smitten.

She comes through the door at four – hat in one hand, the other still unwinding her shawl, cheeks flushed from the chilly air outside and a couple of pins sticking out of her slightly askew bun. She has shed her coat and her dress is lovely and her face is animated by whatever transpired at his brother's home while the man himself was here and Killian is still amazed that a woman this beautiful shares his bed.

"Why didn't you tell me tea parties are so… _bizarre_?"

She tosses her things on the chair across his desk and plants her hands on her hips and there is some kind of joke lurking in her bright eyes. Killian raises an eyebrow.

"Do I look like I spend a lot of time drinking tea with respectable ladies?"

Her lips purse as if to respond but them her shoulders drop a little and she smiles sheepishly. Killian reaches out and, when he feels her cold fingers close around his own, he gives a little tug. Emma comes closer all too willingly, hitching her skirts up so she can settle in his lap. He sets her hand under his shirt where the top few buttons have been undone and brings the other one to his mouth, blowing hot air over her delicate skin. He takes extreme pleasure in how quickly she warms up and proceeds to kiss her nose and cheeks and release her hair from its ruined coiffure.

"I take it Mrs Nolan and my sister-in-law did a fine job of entertaining you, my queen?"

"I believe I was the one that entertained them," she says drily

He does his best to ignore the fact that her hand has seized the opportunity to undo another couple of buttons of his shirt and looks up, studying her face for any sign that something has upset her. But Emma just shakes her head and mumbles something about the afternoon being "very interesting and enlightening" as she leans in and presses her lips to his temple before she starts sliding her way to his mouth.

"And yours, my heart?"

He huffs a little and tries to recall anything beyond the scent of her and how she skin feels below this outrageous corset.

"I will be visiting Captain Nemo for a couple of days to conduct some business in mine and Liam's name. And collect a ridiculous commission from my imprudent brother for it."

It was a concession on his part but Liam still found it necessary to point out that he can sometimes take things without working so damn hard for them. Killian made sure to point out how very piratical of him that sounded.

Emma pulls away and he is sure that she is not aware of the way her lower lip juts out slightly – pink and so very tempting.

"When?"

"At the end of the week."

She looks like she is trying very hard not to show her displeasure and he goes for some levity.

"You know, most women don't mind that much when their husbands make themselves scarce for a bit."

Her look is very much not amused and her hands are definitely not where he placed them anymore.

"Most women aren't married to you."

Before he can respond, she is on her feet and half way to the door and Killian's heart lurches after her. He knows his increased engagements and small trips are the thing she dislikes the most, even if she hasn't said anything, but he hoped this will be the last one and perhaps—

"Emma. Love, I'm sorry, I—" the sound of the key being turned in the lock echoes in the small study. "Emma?"

"As a man who will be going away at the end of the week," she makes her way back to his desk, her hands fiddling behind her, obviously trying to loosen her corset a bit. "You are done for the day."

She snaps the ledger on his desk closed and telling her that's not the one he'd been working on is the furthest thing from his mind as she kisses him deeply. His chair screeches back a few inches and in the next moment Emma is on her knees between him and his desk.

Killian swallows and frowns, even as he feels his groin tighten at the very sight of her.

"What are you doing, love?"

"You're smarter than to ask that, Captain."

He opens his mouth and almost bites his tongue when he feels her small hand cup him through his pants.

"Bloody hell."

Emma smiles – obviously surprised and delighted by his immediate reaction, and tugs at the laces of his pants. As she shuffles forward, his legs fall open of their own volition to let her settle comfortable. The picture she presents makes him hard as a rock and his hand squeezes the armrest so it doesn't reach for her but part of him still feels strange having a lady – _his wife – _on her knees before him, between his legs.

"Queens are not supposed to kneel," he says, a small part of him trying to dissuade her from her path of action while the rest of him growls and snaps at it.

Emma gives him a look from under her eyelashes even as she gives one last tug on his pants and shamelessly takes him in hand.

"Not even when they wish to?"

Whatever words he might have thrown together in response she swallows along with his cock and Killian is a fool but not fool enough to protest further – not when he can feel the flat of her tongue against him and her lips around him and her hair brushing his skin.

"Christ."

Her hair is a sight indeed – his lap full of tangled blonde curls that rustle in time with the movements of her mouth. He bites hard on his lip and lets the inhuman groan building inside him through his nose. He doesn't know how his body remembers to keep breathing when he knows every sensation in it is centered on her and only her.

He feels her nose brush against him, feels her throat muscles tighten as she chokes a little – once, twice, as she tries to take him all in. That's when he finally allows his hand to touch her – combing lightly through her hair before it slips down to rub his thumb over her jaw, coaxing her to relax and not try anything that's giving her difficulty.

Emma seems to get the message because her mouth retreads a little and she glances up at him through her hair, something self-conscious in her eyes that smooths out when she takes in his expression.

Killian is not sure what his face is capable of communicating in this moment – desire, gratification, incredulity, awe – certainly not everything he is feeling. He brushes the strands of gold that have fallen in her eyes and looking her in the eyes as she continues her ministrations almost makes him lose control and come right then and there.

"Love, you might wan— Fuck, I'm—"

He sees her frown in thought before he feels her hands slide over his thighs. Then he sees and feels her cheeks hollow around him and he is lost.

When his vision clears and sensation returns to his legs and arms, Killian can do little but moan at the feel of her tongue running leisurely over him before she lays her cheek on his thigh, her warm breaths washing over him in a marriage of deep bliss and light torture.

He curls a strand of her hair around his finger and when she looks up the almost innocent and bashful look on her face is the last thing he expects.

"Was that alright?"

He groans and instead of answering helps her up and back onto his lap, his hand cupping her head and bringing her closer. She stops a hair's breadth from his lips – a doubt, a question, in her eyes that he answers by running his tongue over her lower lip until she opens up for him.

"I do not mean to disparage your vocabulary, love," he says as his fingers work diligently on freeing her breasts from the confines of her dress. "But if you are going to be doing things like that to me, you'll have to find something a bit stronger than "alright" in the dictionary."

He palms one of her breasts and bites lightly at the other – his cock stirring again at the sound that seems to come from the very center of her and the newfound knowledge of how much Emma likes having her flesh between his teeth. He pulls back to admire the round red mark left behind before he glides his tongue and lips over it gently.

"Then again, sometimes I see and hear things that I can hardly put into words either."

/

She wakes up to the first snow, with Killian's lips against her ribcage, asking her if she would like to meet a far more distinguished captain than himself.

The only reason she doesn't start packing right away is that her legs have already locked around him.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: I don't actually have any for this chapter, except to once again thank you all for reading and for sending me all your amazing feedback - you are the best and this monster wouldn't have been written without you.

* * *

From the moment she wakes up Emma feels two steps behind the clock.

Killian's pillow is cold and when she makes her way downstairs she finds that he has breakfasted without her for the first time in weeks in order to sort out his affairs before they leave. Emma should be doing the same but she can't even make herself eat more than a piece of toast and half a cup of tea – her stomach feeling smaller than the teacup.

Her attention feels so scattered that she begins fixing her hair only to decide that she should pack her gowns before that, only to then decided that shoes should go in first. In the end Ruby has to do most of the packing, while Emma paces around her, her hands slightly aflutter and her heart even more so.

It is the first time she regrets Regina neglecting to teach her much of anything about the social graces expected from her _after _securing a husband. Then again, she supposes Regina never really believed Emma will manage to marry so well, if she managed it at all, and investing in her education was far from a priority.

Captain Nemo's rank puts him on equal footing with Killian and a step below Liam, but all mentions of him have indicated that the brothers Jones revere the man and, from what her husband has explained of his own affairs, their business transactions will be crucial in letting Killian breathe easy again.

Emma tries to subtly ask Ruby a thing or two but the maid seems only slightly less flustered than her mistress from this latest change in plans and everything that she has to accomplish before they depart. Emma looks at herself in the mirror and grabs a couple of extra pins, trying to get at least her hair under control, all the while feeling her stomach squeeze tight and her legs tingle in nervous expectation, thinking that Elsa will know exactly how to behave and what to say and how to make the best impression. In takes her a few minutes to realize that she probably already has – given how long she's been married to Admiral Jones, and Emma's nerves increase tenfold.

/

Around midday the touch of Killian's calloused hand as he helps her into the carriage provides the first moment of calmness for Emma. Then they start moving and she feels her heart beat double time in the general vicinity of her throat.

She presses her thumb against the window and cranes her neck back to watch their home disappear from view along with Granny and Ruby. When she removes her finger there is a damp print on the glass.

"Are you alright, love?"

"Fine," she flashes Killian a closemouthed smile but makes sure not to look him in the eyes.

"You can still stay, if you do not wish to come," he says with some strain, measuring each word carefully and causing her gaze to fly to his face.

"Oh, no, I—" for a moment, she stumbles over the strange tangle of excitement and apprehension inside her mind. "I do wish to, truly. I've just… I haven't travelled much. At all really. And I— I don't want to do something wrong and—"

"Emma."

Killian's hand reaches for hers and brings it to his mouth. Emma feels her face contort as she thinks about how sweaty her palms are but the press of his lips against her knuckles settles her heart a little while doing the exact opposite for her skin and she shifts closer on instinct. The way his lips pull up is rather self-satisfied.

"There is nothing you can do wrong. Nemo is an old friend. You can say and do as you please and he won't have anything to say about it, if he knows what's good for him."

She lifts her eyes to the sky and shakes her head.

"This is terrible advice."

"Is it?" he sounds incredibly amused and she scowls the best she can while his thumb is running gently over the inside of her wrist.

"Indeed. Do as I please? Why, I might please to have my way with you on the dinner table."

The rhythm of his thumb falters, Killian sputters and his ears pinken tellingly.

"I didn't— You wouldn't—" he coughs roughly and gives her an evil look. "Emma."

"Well, it's true. You shouldn't be so flippant about this. I don't know any of Elsa's brilliant tricks for entertaining and charming your business partners or—"

"And you don't have to," Killian says firmly and squeezes her hand.

Emma's look is no less doubtful as he sighs and drops her hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Killian leans his head back on the upholstered seat and gazes at her imploringly.

"I do not have Liam's knack for negotiating either and I've never tried to cultivate it. By all means – if it will make you feel better – ask Elsa about all her little tricks and how she keeps her face frozen throughout the most outrageous conversations. But I do not want you to feel like you _have to_ do any of that. You don't. Not for me."

He reaches for her again and runs his fingers over the side of her face, making Emma lean back to mirror his relaxed position.

"I want to introduce you to a friend and I want you to enjoy yourself. The rest is for me to figure out."

A small part of her still wants to protest that unequal division of responsibilities but the confidence on Killian's face makes her reconsider. Instead she pulls her skirts up just enough to free one of her feet and slide it up his calf where their knees are almost pressed together.

"Well, I'm sure you aren't bringing me along just so _I_ can enjoy myself."

Killian's hand slips down her arm and takes half her waist in his grip.

"I may have some other… more selfish reasons as well."

"Good."

/

The sun has long set by the time they arrive at Captain Nemo's door, a chill has permeated even the plush inside of the carriage and Emma reluctantly unwinds her limbs from around Killian.

"We can just greet the captain and retired for the night, love."

She shakes her head and tries to stretch her feet before the carriage door is opened.

"No, no. I'm such some movement will rouse me in no time."

It's the biting wind outside that has her fully alert in seconds as they are hurried into the house, but Emma is grateful for it, seeing as the dulled lights and soft colours inside would have done little for her foggy brain.

"Jones!"

Captain Nemo looks younger than she presumed he would be – all leaping footsteps and wide shoulders and a large smile directed at her husband.

"Captain," Killian says respectfully and seems to hesitate for just a second before his lips curl up and he shakes the other man's hand heartily. "May I have the pleasure of introducing my wife Emma."

"Ah, Mrs Jones."

Emma immediately likes him better for not calling her "the new Mrs Jones".

"Captain," her curtsy is awkward but Captain Nemo's own bow seems to exist only for the sake of custom.

"Very thoughtful of you to bring your lovely young wife, Jones. We've brooded over my mediocre scotch much too often just the two of us."

"I assure you, Emma can brood with the best of them, if we prove too tedious."

Emma's eyes widen a little and she shoots her husband a chastising look but Captain Nemo laughs freely and boldly takes her arm.

"Come. I made the cook keep the chicken warm so, tired or not, you will have a few bites before I pack you off into separate rooms."

This time her look is one of genuine shock and alarm as she glances at Killian over her shoulder but he just shakes his head ruefully and hurries after them.

"If you plan on stealing my wife, old man, you'll be sorely disappointed and thwarted in no time."

"Will I?" Captain Nemo asks playfully, shooting Killian a challenging grin but it is Emma that speaks up.

"You will."

The older man's attention shifts to her and it's only now that he seems to take a moment to assess her. He smiles appreciatively.

/

Emma wraps her shawl tighter around herself as she steps on the balcony and looks up at the gorgeous full moon that seems to hang right over Captain Nemo's estate. Laughter drifts out from inside and she smiles to herself. Killian and Nemo fell into a familiar pattern of mock antagonism and deep affection in less than a full course and she was relieved to find herself able to mostly sit back and enjoy their antics. Killian kept trying to bring her into the conversation and give her his full attention whenever she did speak up but eventually he realized that she was perfectly fine with just observing and acquainting herself with her new surroundings for now.

The mediocre scotch was still brought out after dinner was cleared away, though Emma saw no sign of brooding on the horizon before she slipped away for some fresh air.

"The view is not half-bad, if I do say so myself."

She startles a little at the Captain's deep voice before she turns around, instinctively looking around him for Killian.

"He is making sure that your sleeping arrangements are satisfactory," he answers her unspoken question.

"Long as I'm not made to sleep across the hallway from my husband, I'm sure they will be splendid."

Emma discovers that after a couple of glasses Nemo's laughter is more of a guffaw. She discovers that its strength makes one immediately proud to have caused it.

"I wouldn't dare, Mrs Jones, you look much too fierce."

"I do?" she can't prevent the question from slipping out, that's how strong her surprise at the assessment is.

Nemo either doesn't hear or doesn't think it necessary to answer her question, instead moving closer to the balustrade and looking out at the starry sky. The moon is much too big and much too bright for her to recognize any of the constellations Killian has been teaching her but the forest that spreads all around, almost encircling the grounds, is alive with a symphony of nights sounds that make Emma peer curiously deep into its dark depths.

"I've known Killian since he was a young lad, still dreaming of conquering the world," Captain Nemo's voice breaks into the forest's song before it melts into it as well. "The world doesn't like being conquered. It has shown me that. It made sure to show him too."

Emma can't decide to what degree she appreciates the man's overly philosophical view.

"I don't know all that convinced him of that but the last time we saw each other, I let him know how much I do not admire men who give up on themselves and the world."

Emma stiffens a little and purses her lips, holding back a wave of resentment at the idea of Killian coming to his friend for diversion and receiving judgement. It is quickly followed by a flash of guilt as she wonders if Killian was just as apprehensive about this trip but she was too lost in her own fretting to notice. She assumes their correspondence and Nemo's warm welcome have done away with any bitterness Killian might have held.

"I see now...," Nemo looks at her from the corner of his eye. "I see that your soft words have done much more good than my harsh ones."

She attempts no modest rebuke. She knows for herself – she knows because of Killian, how much deeper softer words can reach.

"I supposed what I'm trying to say is that I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mrs Jones. And twice as glad that Killian has."

Emma finally turns to look fully at the man.

"As am I, Captain. It is only right to confess that I have received much more that I can ever give."

Nemo hums in obvious consideration before he turns his back to the night.

"Ah, but your very acceptance of it is giving," he says with a satisfied smile and Emma has to admit some of his wise turns of phrase have a ring of truth to them. "Do not stay out too long, Mrs Jones. Your husband will find a plank to make me walk in the middle of all this forest, if you catch a chill."

With that he makes his way inside and Emma sinks back into the non-silence of the night. The cold doesn't have the chance to reach her bones as she feels a pair of arms wrap around her a minute later and Killian sets his chin on her shoulder, the scruff on his cheeks tickling her neck and making her squirm a little even as she presses deeper into his embrace.

"Did that old seadog make you uncomfortable, my queen?"

"Captain Nemo?" she asks in surprise. "No, of course not. Why?"

"Just making certain. He has remained one of those eternal bachelors who think every woman is his to tease and woo simply because he does not have one of his own."

She laughs against him and settles her hands on top of the real and wooden one that rest on her stomach, running her fingers lightly up his forearms.

"No, no, he was perfectly candid about liking me entirely for your sake."

"Aye, I believe he should. He called me a "sullen cabin boy" on my last visit."

She turns her head to get a glimpse of his face and make sure he is speaking in earnest even though his account aligns with Nemo's own admission.

"That's rather high-handed of him," is what she says tightly.

"Perhaps, but not entirely wrong."

She feels Killian's shoulders lift and fall around her and he presses a kiss to her cheek – his lips tender and his nose ice-cold. She lifts her hand and rubs her palm against his nose, making him laugh and struggle to pull away from her without actually letting her out of his arms.

"Emma."

"Let's go inside before more important extremities start freezing, my heart."

"Am I to understand that my nose is of so little importance to you?"

She flicks it for good measure.

/

He doesn't bother trying to pull away from her immediately – she never lets him. Desk work hasn't helped him much in keeping his naval shape and slim built and she is a sprite of a thing, but Emma doesn't seem to mind the weight and suffocating warmth of his body on top of hers.

If possible, he sinks even deeper into her – his damp forehead pressing to her sternum, his chest pushing into hers on every exhale as he feels her hands run up and down his back and scratch deliciously at his scalp, his left forearm slides more securely under her as his right hand leaves his softening member and starts moving along the curve of her backside.

Slowly, after a minute or five, after he has unsuccessfully tried to shift away at least once, Emma's legs fall back to the mattress and her hands slow down, skirting almost absent-mindedly over his shoulders, and Killian rolls onto his side, fitting his hand below her ribs and pulling her against him, her right shoulder fitting perfectly in the center of his chest as he tips his head to kiss the few freckles scattered over it.

"I love you."

He hears her breath hitch a little, the way it always does when he says it.

Killian has made a silent bargain with himself – she will hear it so often that someday she will barely notice when he says it. He supposes it's a strange thing to desire but he does not relish her awe and surprise every time she hears the words. He wants them to become as natural as air for her.

"Would it be too childish if I said I love you more?"

He presses his grin behind her ear.

"Not childish. Just untrue."

Her hum is anything but agreement but she just shifts a little and nuzzles even closer. He feels her fit her nail right over his nipple and press lightly and he bites his lip against the groan that rises up from inside him. But when he looks down at his wife, she seems entirely unaware of the effect her actions are having on him. Her eyes are directed at her hand, splayed possessively over his chest, but her gaze seems to look right through him and into something that is invisible to his eyes.

He doesn't get the opportunity to feel jealous of whatever thoughts have stolen her away but it would be shamefully easy.

"Killian. Can I ask you something?"

"One of these days you can do away with the prelude, love."

"Maybe," she mumbles.

Her cheeks are flushed from more than just their love-making and now her eyes seem very focused and interested in the greying hairs on his chest.

"Killian, why do you never… why do you always—" her nail presses harder into his areola before it releases, the pad of her finger smoothing out the little half-moon as she sighs deeply. "Why do you always pull away from me? At the end."

It takes him a moment to realize what she means even though he has been expecting the question since the first time they came together and he feels his skin burn a little hotter. She looks up at him through her eyelashes much sooner than he is ready to meet her eyes – full of tenderness and trepidation and a little insecurity.

He curses himself for letting that last one seep in. Still, for a moment, he can't find the words to put her mind at ease. So, in lieu of any words, he slips his arms more securely around her and squeezes her close, placing kisses over the path of her hairline.

"Emma, I— I want nothing but your safety and happiness."

She pulls back slightly and frowns at him in confusion.

"You told me…" he swallows hard, he doesn't want to bring something so painful for her in the tiny space between them.

The old wound that she showed him at the swing he built for his daughter and later – on a grey afternoon, sharing an armchair meant for one and looking at charts he made in another lifetime – she let him know how long it had taken her to recover, how for a few weeks she thought she might _never_ recover, she let him know how, years later, she had all but given up on ever feeling truly warm and whole again.

Killian will readily admit that he felt a surge of pride along with the love and tenderness for her when Emma told him he'd given that warmth back to her. He shudders at the thought of being the one to take it away again.

"You told me how hard it was for you to recover after— the last time you were with child."

Her whole body goes rigid against him and Killian squeezes his eyes shut, praying to a God he has long abandoned that she doesn't pull away but loosening his grip on her all the same.

Her hands only clamp tighter around him so he dares to finish.

"I do not want to put you at risk, Emma."

For a few moments they lie in silence – his hand a little unsteady as he smooths it over the back of her head and her nails once again digging almost painfully into his chest and stomach but neither says a word.

"I-I can't— I told you I can't," she chokes out and he can hear the tears in her voice and his throat tightens.

"I know. I know, love. It's alright."

"It's not—"

"It's alright."

He rolls her onto her back again and when he gets a good look at her face the tears have already fallen. He kisses them away and then he kisses her lips. Once, twice, thrice. He kisses her again and again, each kiss exactly the same as the one before – no deeper, no more demanding – short and warm. He kisses her until he feels her relax into the sheets again, he kisses her until her hand comes up to caress the side of his face and her lips start responding to his and trying to keep them pressed together longer.

"I know, sweetheart," he tells her again and ghosts his mouth over her forehead before he pulls back to look her in the eyes. "But you…you can never be certain. It's better we not risk it."

Emma's brows pull together for a second and then her eyes widen a little – something shocked and hurt in her bright gaze.

"You wouldn't want to? Even if I could? You wouldn't want me to carry your child?"

He doesn't have to think about it, the words fall out like a stone that he can still feel against his heart.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You won't—"

"You don't know that, Emma. There is a danger either way but especially with what you've been through."

"I'm not fragile!"

His head jerks back in surprise at the transformation of her hurt into anger.

"I don't think—"

"But you do!"

He clenches his jaw and pulls away from her fully, feeling like his skin is still stuck to her and being peeled off him in the process. He sits with his knees bent before him and rubs his hand harshly over his face. He speaks to his palm when he opens his mouth.

"I meant what I said, Emma. I love you. I love you so very much. And that doesn't just mean that I desire you and that I enjoy your company and that I want to be with you for the rest of my life," he hears her sharp inhale at that and can't help the bittersweet uptick of his lips at her reaction despite the fact that they are already wed and sworn to each other for life. "It means your happiness means more to me than anything. Your safety and your comfort and your life—"

His voice breaks over the last word and he finally looks at her – she is sitting up as well, her eyes are impossibly wide and swimming with tears and her hands are hovering in the air before her as if she wants to touch him but is unable to move. He reaches over and takes her hand in his, letting them drop to the bed between them.

"Those things mean more to me than anything else."

They look at each other and he is relieved to see that the hurt and anger have seeped out of her gaze. Then comes the determination.

She moves slowly and deliberately and he doesn't stop her as she climbs into his lap and cradles his hand and stump against her breasts. Her kiss is heady but short and he is not prepared when she speaks.

"More than Alice?"

"What?"

"Does my happiness mean more to you than hers?" she asks matter-of-factly.

For a moment he feels a spike of indignation, almost betrayal, before he sees the response she expects written over her face and his own softens in return.

"I will do anything – anything at all – to protect you both, to ensure your happiness."

"And that's how you would feel if we—" she swallows, a little fearful of even daring to utter the words. "If we had a child. If we could—"

She looks down and brings his hand and his wrist to her lips and Killian feels one of his own tears finally break free.

"I don't know if that's possible. I never thought— But then I never could have imagined _you_ either."

He still doesn't understand why she talks as if he is something extraordinary that has happened to her. When she looks at him again there is hope shimmering all around the determination.

"I don't know, Killian. But one thing I do know is that the queen's whole armada couldn't drag me away from you. And neither could death itself."

"Emma—"

"Do you truly believe I would give up my life now that I love it so?"

"You can't—"

"Yes, I can. Listen to me, my heart. For years I thought I'd never even have the chance, have someone to…"

He brings their still intertwined hands to her heart and reminds himself that that's over now, that _he_ has the power to make it so that she is never alone again. The thought sends a sharp pain through his heart – the thought that he is only human and can't be with her forever and maybe—

"But now I do. I have you. And I love you more than I can say. And, if there is a chance – even the smallest chance – that our love can create a life, I want to see it. I— If there is, it won't be— It can't be anything but a blessing."

It's too much. It's too tempting, it's too damn wonderful of a thought and Killian can feel himself teetering on the edge. It's hard to force himself to maintain his balance when the fall will be in her arms.

"I don't want to be without you, Emma," he says simply, honestly. "I don't know how I managed all this time without you, I don't want anymore."

"And you won't have to. I won't give you up for anything."

It's more than he can take, it's more than he can resist. When he lets go, when he falls – she is there to catch him.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: 1. It's only referenced but Rumpel/Rumbelle fans might not enjoy some things  
2\. Mentions of hunting and trophies, nothing graphic

* * *

Breakfast at Captain Nemo's home is an unnecessary lavish affair. Emma wonders if the man bothers with so many different beverages, fruits, pastries and meats even when he is eating on his own. She is almost certain that he does. The captain does everything with certain aplomb that she finds both amusing and, on occasion, a tad exasperating. Judging by Killian's face, none of it is out of the ordinary so she just tries to acclimate herself to the best of her abilities.

The task becomes somewhat easier when the men close themselves inside Captain Nemo's study to discuss the business that brought them here in the first place and leave Emma to her own devices. Much as she would've liked to have Killian's company, she is far from bored.

If their home has touches of a ship's interior about it, Captain Nemo's makes her feel like she has been plunged into the very depths of the ocean. Emma doesn't care much for all the stuffed animals and sea creatures that are present in almost every room – she touches a boar's tusk but can't make herself put her hand on its brittle fur and eyes the long fish that line the walls with morbid interest.

The different stones and shells are much more pleasing to her eye and cool and smooth beneath her fingertips. She recognizes a few from Killian's collection on the mantle in his—their bedroom, but Captain Nemo's haul is much larger and more meticulous. When she picks up an oval grey stone that she has no fear of dropping or damaging, Emma discovers the writing underneath. Too curious to be cautious, she gently turns one of the seashells over and discovers a black inscription in blocky letters on the smooth white surface inside it. It takes her another minute to realize they are ordered alphabetically and her laugh echoes a little off the high ceiling.

But it's the paintings and maps that truly take her breath away. The ones depicting the depths of the ocean manage to conjure up a ball of awe and unrest deep in her belly and she finds that she can't stare at the almost black blues and greens that hang in the drawing-room without starting to imagine all sorts of creature lurking within them.

There is a world map in the captain's sprawling library that takes up almost at entire wall and that's the one Killian finds her sitting on the floor in front of, her legs crossed and her skirts spread all around her. She can't help but smile at the way he drops to his knees and carefully rearranges the fabric so that he can sit beside her without trampling on her gown.

She turns around and cups his chin in her hand, bringing his mouth to hers.

"Did all go well?"

He nods against her, his nose brushing her cheek as he kisses her one more time before pulling away.

"Our dear host has declared that, if my naval skills were as good as my business touch, I would've never made it past a midshipman's post."

In the absence of anyone else, Emma sees no reason to restrain her eyeroll but Killian continues with a smile.

"I pointed out that I do not make a habit of coming into a man's home to eat his food and drink his whiskey and then try to cheat him out of his money. On the whole, I believe he was left thirsty for some good old-fashioned bargaining and squabbling," Killian sighs with regret that his twinkling eyes tell her he doesn't feel in the least. "If it were Liam who entered that room with him, you wouldn't have seen either of them until dawn broke out tomorrow."

"Well, that's just one more reason to be glad you're not Liam," Emma says and pushes lightly on his thigh so his legs open further, encasing her between them.

"I thought you liked my brother, love," he says with a teasing grin even as his hand slips over her waist, the corset preventing her from properly feeling the touch, much to Emma's disappointment.

"I do. I just like you better."

She kisses his neck above the cravat he doesn't bother with at home and grins in satisfaction when Killian tugs her closer sharply. Perhaps the floor of his dear friend's library is not the best place for her to be reaching for her husband's ass – their position also rather limits her success, which is, frankly, the part Emma is more upset about.

They woke up too late to do anything but get dressed and hurry down to breakfast this morning and she has tried not to obsess over their conversation the night before all day but she needs this. She needs the confirmation of coming together to know that she has truly alleviate Killian's fears. Truthfully, she needs it to be certain that none of her own will resurface as well.

"I hope that will still be the case after I disclose what I agreed to in order to placate the old man."

"Please tell me you're not moving in the room across the hall."

She feels his neck vibrate with his laughter and bites down lightly, cautious to not leave a mark and only slightly irritated that she has to make that concession.

"Eventually, you will have to let that go, my queen."

"Eventually."

"But, no. I am still permitted to spend the night in my wife's arms," Killian says and she hums in approval. "As long as I spend the afternoon in the forest."

"In the forest?"

She pulls back to look at him in confusion.

"Aye, Nemo will have me hunting my own dinner apparently, so much for hospitality," he jests lightly. "The man loves his sport and I promised to indulge him in recompense for making him such a fair deal on the stock."

She would roll her eyes again, if she wasn't so busy trying not to pout. She was saving the explorations of the grounds for when Killian was free to go with her but she tries to tell herself that it makes perfect sense that his friend would want to spend more time with him.

Unsurprisingly, he picks up on her unvoiced disappointment.

"I could still refuse him, say I—"

"No, no," she tugs and smooths his cravat back into place, realizing that she's left a small pink mark anyway and feeling her cheeks heat. "Don't do that. You should go, enjoy yourself."

"Hunting has never been my chosen pastime, but Nemo has promised that we shall just try for some birds. It's too cold to go too deep into the forest regardless."

That doesn't sound as dangerous and gruesome as the picture the trophies painted in her head earlier and Emma chews on her lower lip thoughtfully. She doesn't need anyone to tell her that the idea in her head is preposterous but then again—

"Emma."

Killian's thumb pulls lightly on her lip, saving it from getting bloodied by her teeth.

"May I come?"

"Pardon?"

"I'm sorry, that's— Forget I said—"

"You want to come hunting with us?"

"It's stupid, forget it."

"Have you ever gone hunting before?"

She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest.

"No. As I said, it's stup—"

"Love, stop saying it's stupid," Killian's voice sounds just exasperated enough that her eyes snap to him in surprise – she realizes her request was obtuse but she didn't think he would be annoyed by it. "What's so stupid about it? There's a first time for everything."

Emma blinks and lets her hands drop back to her lap.

"Nemo doesn't like having any servants around when he hunts. It will be just the three of us. He knows I was always better with a sword than a gun, I hardly think he would expect much of the outing."

"You don't think he would mind?"

"I don't think he would say so even if he does," Killian's eyebrows fly across his forehead. "I think he finds you a little intimidating."

Emma shakes her head in dismay, even though it matches what the captain himself told her.

"That's just ridiculous."

Killian hums and pulls her closer again, his hand reaching for her shoulders, working the tension gathered there.

"I don't know about that."

She looks at him in surprise.

"Were you ever intimidated by me?"

"I—" Killian huffs a half-laugh and her eyes widen. "I wasn't intimidated, per se. I just… I thought it would be rather hard to win your favour."

"And then I fell so easily for your charms," she sighs in faux disappointment and tries not to smile at Killian's laughter.

"I would not phrase it like that, though, yes, I was prepared to have to prove myself to you."

She frowns a little and finally twists around so they're fully face to face, her hands coming up to frame his face.

"I didn't need you to prove anything. I just needed to get to know you."

Killian swallows audibly.

"And then?"

She smiles, her eyes flying over his face.

"That's when the falling happened."

The door opens exactly as Killian's tongue slides over her lips and both of them pull back so quickly that Emma has to put her hands behind her so she doesn't fall on her back.

"Oh," the maid that just came in blushes in three different shades of pink and turns a little to the side, staring out of the window. "Captain Jones, Captain Nemo wanted to know if you'd like to have tea before you leave for your hunt."

"Yes, of course," Killian tries to cough the huskiness out of his voice but if the maid's brand new shade of pink is any indication, he is not doing too well.

He rises with as much dignity as he can muster and hurries to give Emma a hand, helping her to her feet and, much to the servant's further embarrassment and dismay, bending down to smooth out and arrange her skirts.

The girl seems to realize that she can run away now that she has received an answer and, even though her back is already turned, Emma is sure that her face is pinched when Killian stops her.

"Could you let the captain know that my wife would be joining us?"

"For tea? Yes, of cour—"

"No, no, for the hunt later."

"Oh."

Emma resists the urge to hide her face in Killian's shoulder and tell him that it's fine and he doesn't have to bring her along but his hand settles comfortably on her waist, just a bit lower than it would've if anyone could see and she decides she would rather scandalize Captain Nemo's staff than spend the whole afternoon away from him.

"Of course, I would inform the captain."

"Thank you," Killian's smile is perfectly polite and composed, contrasting strongly with the way his fingers squeeze her in silent promise.

/

Astride one of Nemo's beautiful golden mares, among the vivid greenery that makes her eyes shine even brighter, Emma looks the very picture of the goddess Artemis. The wide-eyed girl that asked him to pick a gun for her minutes ago is nowhere to be seen as she spurs her horse forward and grins widely at him as the wind ruffles the hair streaming from under her hat.

They race each other for a few minutes – laughing and disorderly like a pair of children let outside after a long punishment and their host dutifully takes on the role of the exasperated governing figure, trying to get them in line. Nemo might be an excellent shot but Killian likes to think that he is the better rider. That fact that his wife whispers something about him astride a horse – that she has no business even thinking while they're outside _and_ in company – doesn't hurt his confidence either.

But it's the sight of Emma later, trying to aim at the target he sets her, that makes this outside and in public exercise so damn difficult. The way she scrunches up her nose and pokes her tongue out as he adjusts her arm is simply precious but it's the way she pulls her shoulders back and raises her head – her neck long and slender even under the scarf he made her wear, that makes him forget most of everything that isn't related to the image of her astride him rather than the horse she sits on.

Inconvenient as it is at this precise moment, the sensation is absolutely exhilarating. For nearly two decades, Killian has had precious little interest in knowing a woman the way he is getting to know Emma. When the notion that she wanted more than just his name and protection first introduced itself to him, he thought long and hard exactly how well he could please her with such intimacy having become so foreign to him.

It's only the last couple of months that have made him realize that there are more than just Emma's desires simmering between them. With certain exceptions, where he was helpless to resists her attentions, he has done his best to focus on her needs and wants when taking her to bed. Being conscious of the risks of losing control and getting her with child also put a limit of sorts to his indulgence.

Now, with her expressed desire – her assurance – that it is a limit they should do away with, with the way she holds the reins in one hand and the gun he helped her select in the other, Killian finds his own yearning running wild beside their horses.

They haven't actually shot at anything yet, which Killian is perfectly content with – he has always preferred meeting men in battle than hunting animals for sport, but Emma is doing well enough with her practicing shots and even better with handling her weapon with care so that he feels confident they won't have an accident on their hands.

Nemo seems to agree, if he is willing to start joking about the matter.

"I used to know a man – a sour-faced fellow, don't think I ever heard him laugh, even when he was well into his cups – who would never take any of his wives hunting."

"How many did he have?" Emma turns back to the captain with interest and even Killian finds himself confused for a moment.

"Five, if I'm not missing any, which I very well might be. Practically every time I returned home there will be a new Mrs Gold at the neighbouring estate."

"Oh, _that_ gentleman," Killian says, aware that his tone implies that he considered the man anything but a gentleman.

"Aye," Nemo says but his grin falls away as he catches sight of what Killian presumes is now his own very sour face. "Ah, I forgot you had some… entanglement there."

Killian can feel Emma's curious gaze on the side of his face but he is surprised to find the dull but deep throb in his chest that used to accompany that particular "entanglement" almost completely absent. He turns to look at his wife with an ease that he doesn't need to fake, when he can feel the air thicken with her interest and Nemo's discomfort.

"A long time ago I was engaged to one of those many wives."

He sees the moment the pieces connect in Emma's mind and her eyes widen a little – it's not surprise so much as a question and he is glad to be able to answer it with a reassuring half-smile.

"One of the luckier ones," Nemo supplies, obviously having decided that Killian doesn't mind the topic enough for him to drop his story. "She ran away."

"What happened to the others?" Emma asks with a furrowed brow and Killian starts to doubt the entertaining factor of the tale.

"Two died in childbirth and Mrs Belle Gold is now a cheerful widow and still the mistress of Darkstone. The other one... Well…" Nemo clears his throat and seems to regret starting on this path as well. "It's somewhat uncertain. It was reported as an accident but many believe the lady took her own life."

"And you associated with that man?"

Killian can't really blame Emma for the indignation in her voice but he comes to his friend's defence. Even he and Liam found themselves in a hunting party with Mr Gold once.

"The man was a snake when it came to the way he acquired his lands and treated his tenants but he was cleared of all other suspicions."

Emma doesn't seem placated but she shakes her head and composes her expression.

"Well, from the little you've said I'm not surprised he wouldn't allow his wives to hunt."

"And why is that, Mrs Jones?" Nemo asks with some of his humour returning.

"Why, he obviously didn't think it was their place. Probably fancied they wouldn't know which way to hold a gun."

She doesn't say it scornfully and Killian remembers her own hesitance to request coming along just hours ago but there is a note of impatience in her tone nonetheless – an indignation that she might think unreasonable but feels regardless. By all means, Killian shouldn't like that but he does. He silently marks the occasion for the next time she asks him how anyone could think her intimidating.

Nemo just grins widely.

"Quite the opposite. He was afraid they would know just which way to hold it and turn it on him."

"Oh."

"Load of good that did him."

Emma tilts her head in obvious confusion.

"He got mauled by a bear," Nemo says breezily and seems almost amused by the way Emma's eyes widen and her hand flies to her mouth.

"My God."

"Are you trying to scare my wife, old man?"

"Not at all, you know there aren't any bears for miles. Just keeping her entertained."

Killian shakes his head and urges his horse between Emma and Nemo's, catching her eyes and trying to bring some levity back into the day.

"You should be very flattered, love, tis not one or two men who would rather avoid arming their wives and riding into the dark forest with them."

She continues the stare at him for a couple of seconds before her eyes roll toward the grey sky above them and she huffs.

"My, I must be doing something terribly wrong, if you think I want you dead."

Killian urges his horse as close to hers as possible and leans over to speak directly into her ear.

"I gave you the best gun, didn't I?"

/

Her head connects with the door with a solid sound.

"Forgive me, love," he mumbles into her hair but continues worrying a sizeable mark behind her ear as his hand tries to rid her of her hunting jacket.

"I'm not sure I could, if you stop."

Killian groans and drops his own forehead to the wood above her shoulder even as his hips press harder into her through the much less layered gown that she was riding in. He bends his knees so he can get his hand under it.

He has been dying to have her since she swung her leg over her horse but is pleasantly surprised to find Emma as wet as he is hard.

"Don't, I'm almost—"

He pushes two of his fingers inside her with ease and the only reason he hears the noise she makes is that she buries it in his face as she bites at his jaw and her hands slip down his back and below his breeches with startling speed. He teases her for a moment and is just about to pull his hand away and rid them both of their clothes when there is knock on the door they are still very intimately pressed against.

"Mrs Jones? Your bath is ready."

He doesn't have a hand with which to catch her head before it hits the door again.

"Mrs Jones?"

Thankfully her groan of frustration is silent, though he can feel the hum of it over her whole skin.

"Bloody hell. Tell her you'll go to supper dirty."

"Killian," she hisses and then calls out that she will be there in a minute.

He can't do what he planned to in a minute but he still manages to do something in five.

/

In hindsight, Emma should have realized that Captain Nemo wouldn't bring up a man that both he and Killian clearly disliked for no reason at all, she just never could've imagined that the reason would be Mrs Belle Gold's presence at dinner that night. So Emma is going to choose surprise as justification for the tightness in her chest as she watches Mrs Gold beam at her husband.

The fact that Killian calls her "Belle" instead of "Mrs Gold" doesn't escape her attention. The justification here is that he obviously held less than amiable feelings towards Gold and Mrs Gold was once upon a time a woman that he hoped would be Mrs Jones instead. That train of thought doesn't reach nearly as reassuring of a destination as she hoped it would.

The fact that Belle looks absolutely resplendent in her golden gown as Captain Nemo helpfully points out also doesn't escape her attention. No justification is needed. It is simply the truth.

Belle's impeccable manners, her shining hair and perfect hourglass shape, her bright and clever eyes and the way she has a masterfully-worded opinion on every topic that Nemo introduces also makes an impression. On everyone in the room, she is sure.

It is her own silence and the frequency with which Emma lifts her wineglass to her lips to avoid the awkwardness of just sitting there that does escape her attention.

"Are you alright, love? You were very quiet through dinner."

She allows Killian to take her arm and lead her into the drawing-room, leaning into him both to reassure herself of his presence beside her and to counteract the effects of the wine.

"Just tired."

It's not a lie but it also fails to mention that, unlike the previous night, Killian didn't try to draw her into the conversation earlier, seeming perfectly content to sit back and admire Belle's knowledge of books and architecture and the Fairy Islands apparently.

When glasses of Captain Nemo's "above mediocre" whiskey – she supposes this was brought out in honour of Mrs Gold and cringes only a little at how bitter the thought is – are passed around, Emma knows she should refuse, a proper lady would refuse. A proper lady would excuse herself at the pretext of being exhausted after the hunt and retire for the night so nobody notices that she is already less than perfectly sober. No, no, a proper lady would never be anything but perfectly sober in the first place. Mary Margaret would never be anything but perfectly sober. Elsa might indulge herself but never in public.

The thought makes her throat feel tighter still and she takes a glass.

At some point she thinks she notices Killian's confused and concerned eyes on her but what she certainly notices is the way Mrs Gold pulls him to the side when Captain Nemo somehow manages to engage Emma in conversation. She is not entirely certain what they are conversing about. Piano playing, she believes. She doesn't play, of course, but she is certain that Mrs Gold does so beautifully – Mrs Gold whose hand is definitely on Killian's arm and has been for a while now. Captain Nemo readily agrees and begs the woman in question to regale them with a performance. For a moment, Emma thinks she might be sick.

But the moment after that, Killian is kneeling by her chair.

"Emma? Would you like to retire for the night?"

Belle is playing and Captain Nemo looks for all the world like he has never heard anything better. She plays marvelously, of course. Emma doesn't know what she is saying as she lurches to her feet.

"Yes, of course, I don't want to be in the way."

"You're not—"

She thinks Killian was trying to take her hand but she starts moving toward the door before he can do so. She hears him making excuses behind her – she forgot to take leave of their host and his guest. Of course, she did.

When Killian catches up to her and sets his hand on the small of her back, she can't make herself pull away.

"You don't have to see me to my room."

"I'm not seeing you to your room, love, I'm coming up with you."

She turns on her heel and loses her balance a little. Killian's left arm wraps around her waist and her chest is suddenly pressed to his. She looks down at herself. She doesn't like the cut of the dress she is wearing, she doesn't know why on earth she put it on. Likely because she liked it just fine before she came down to dinner and met the "resplendent" Mrs Gold.

"You don't have to do that. You were enjoying yourself. Go back."

"Emma," Killian's fingers settle under her chin and urge her head up. "I always had in mind for us to retire early. For a number of reasons. But now I have a slightly more pressing concern, namely the fact that you most certainly did not enjoy yourself."

"Oh, you noticed that?"

Killian reels back as if she'd slapped him and his hand falls away from her face as she feels her features crumple.

"I'm sorry, I—"

It surges up from the back of her mind – the knowledge that Killian hasn't done anything wrong, that he would never do anything to hurt or shame her. It's not his fault that women smile at him in a way that she doesn't like, or that they are more beautiful and more accomplished than her.

"No, I'm sorry," Killian swallows and she feels the overwhelming urge to slap her hand over his mouth, to stop him from saying whatever it is he is about to say. "I got carried away in—"

He looks around, realizing that they are still in the hallway, the fact had escaped Emma's attention as well.

"Please, let's go upstairs."

She nods and lets him lead her to their room, her body feeling a bit numb even as her head is buzzing incessantly. The sudden instability of the world around her is making it very hard for her to steel herself for whatever Killian has to say, still she tries to remind herself that she should not be angry or upset about anything that might have transpired before they were wed. Perhaps even— No, no, she doesn't believe that and it's not—

"Emma. Drink this."

She blinks, surprised to find herself sitting on the edge of their bed. Killian is kneeling in front of her again and urging her to take a glass of water – the fire behind him makes his hair seem darker than usual but his eyes look older, troubled. The cool liquid makes her realize how thirsty she was.

"How are you feeling, love?"

"A little dizzy."

"Have you ever been drunk before?"

The question is not accusatory but Emma finds herself blinking back tears suddenly.

"No," her voice sounds small and choked and in the next second Killian is sitting beside her and pulling her into his arms.

"Shhh, sweetheart, it's alright. It will pass. You'll get some rest and it will pass."

She slips her arms around his waist and squeezes him hard, Killian just runs his hand up and down her back for a few moments, whispering words she can't quite comprehend in her ear and Emma thinks she would've fallen asleep if the darkness didn't swirl around every time she closed her eyes.

"Let's get you into bed, alright?" Killian pulls back and moves around her and she feels him start working on the laces of her corset.

She lets him work in silence for a few minutes, while he loosens her corset and helps her out of her dress and takes off her shoes and her stockings. It's when his hand slips into her hair – only half a dozen pins holding a few strands together while the rest of it she left down – that she feels something inside her pull and release. She turns in his arms and slips her hands into his hair, pulling him closer and slipping her tongue inside his mouth without preamble.

He is _hers_, he is in _her_ bed, he is taking _her_ clothes off, he is— pulling away.

"Stop. Emma, stop."

It takes her longer than it should to peel her eyes open – his lips are very pink and kiss-swollen and she tries to capture them again but Killian pulls back and that's when she realizes he is holding both of her hands in his own large one. He is holding her away from him.

"W-what?"

"Not tonight, sweetheart. Let's just go to sleep and—"

"Why not?"

Her voice is a mix of angry confusion and something heartbreaking and the look on Killian's face tells her he hears it too.

"Emma. Emma, I love you very much, but I'm not going to bed you when you are drunk."

"I want you to!"

"No."

"Why?!"

His brows furrow and the heartbreaking bit is in his eyes now. He sets her hands on her lap and gets off the bed, glancing at the door in hesitation. That gets through the haze in her head.

"Oh."

Killian turns to her and she watches his shoulders relax at the realization on her face.

"I'm sorry."

The moment she says it she feels something around her heart break off and she falls forward on the bed, burying her face in her hands as she cries. When she feels his arms around her again, she just shakes her head.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Hush, love. It's alright, we're alright."

This time she lets him soothe her and undress her completely, slipping her nightgown on and tucking her into bed. She doesn't try to kiss him again but she doesn't let go of him either and, thankfully, Killian seems fine with that. She also can't seem to stop saying how sorry she is – he is less fine with that but she is still mumbling apologies as she falls asleep in his arms.

/

She wakes up feeling like she has slept the day away but it's hard to tell with the curtains pulled closed. There is light, sneaking between the petals on the fabric but she can't tell if it's morning light or early afternoon. She is warm, can hear the crackling of the fire that is keeping the room at a temperature that makes the two blankets she is under too much, and her head feels fine but she is uncertain if that will still be the case once she lifts it from the pillow.

When she does, her eyes immediately land on Killian, sitting on the rug before the fire and using the perfectly comfortable armchair behind him as a backrest. Part of her feels guilty that he has stayed to watch over her but most of her is just glad that he is here.

She takes a moment to recall the night before and swallow her shame.

"I'm sorry I embarrassed you in front of your friends," her voice is rough and the words catch in her throat but they are audible enough that his head shoots up.

He gets up with a little grunt, rubbing at his knee, and goes to the table by the window. There is a tray of food but he just fills a glass of water from the decanter and Emma sits up, leaning against the headboard as he brings it to her. She drinks the whole thing and when she hands it back, he presses a kiss to her forehead that makes her squeeze her eyes shut.

"You didn't embarrass me in front of anybody."

"Of course, I did."

"No. And I'd hoped you wouldn't wake up just to keep apologizing."

Killian sets the glass on the floor and settles on top of the covers, wrapping his left arm around her legs.

"I'm the one who should apologize."

Emma frowns and goes to shake her head and that is certainly not her brightest idea. She feels Killian reach up to cup her cheek, stall the movement and comb her hair behind her ear before he drops his hand to take one of hers.

"I was so focused on my ridiculous ideas that I realized you were having a miserable time much too late."

"I wasn't—" his look makes her swallow the lie. "I was just…"

She takes a deep breath and squeezes his hand, she means to look into his eyes but that seems to be asking too much of herself so she addresses her question to his fingers.

"When were you— were you… together?"

"Pardon?"

She looks up and down again, catching a glimpse of Killian's confused look.

"You and Belle."

"Me and… Belle? Emma, why would you— Of course not. She was married when we— but that's no matter, I've never— love, I am under the impression that Nemo has set his sights on the lass and, knowing them both, decided to promote the match."

"Oh," things shift and rearrange themselves in her head. "Oh."

"Bloody hell, did you think—"

"Not now," she says helplessly, the only accusation she is innocent of. "Just… she is very— she is quite lovely and you seemed very close and…"

"Christ."

Killian lets go of her hand, wracking his fingers through his hair before he leans forward, his mouth stopping a breath away from hers.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

She'd laugh but her throat is rough and she still might cry and that will only waste time that he could be kissing her.

"Of course."

His lips are gentle at first but then his hand wraps around the back of her neck and his tongue finds hers and that's better. The idea that he is anything but hers seems preposterous when he is kissing her like this. Still her hands remain in her lap, her eyes half-open, and she doesn't feel like she deserves to have him in this moment. But Killian kisses her long and thorough, his fingers digging into her neck where at least half of all the tension inside her body seems to have gathered.

"Emma," he pulls back, kisses her shoulder and looks up – something almost indignant in his eyes. "How could you think I'd want anyone else when I have you?"

"I…" she groans and finally lets herself reach for him, her nails digging into his forearms even through his shirt. "I'm sorry."

"Please, stop saying that."

"I—" she swallows the apology and laughs mirthlessly at herself.

"I've never even looked at Belle that way," he says earnestly and she tries to avert her eyes, ashamed that he has to say it at all but Killian presses his forehead to hers and it's hard to hide behind the single strand of hair trapped between them. "No, sod Belle, I've never— Emma, I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you."

She feels her next breath cut short at that.

"Not even—" she swallows the question quickly, chides herself for continuing to interrogate him when—

"Not even then," Killian says calmly and she squeezes her eyes shut. "Don't. Don't do that, love. I— I want you to know that. I want you to know I've never loved anyone like I love you. I've never trusted anyone like I trust you."

It should be impossible for one sentence to fill and pierce her heart at the same time.

"I trust you too," she means it with her whole being but the words come out more as a plea than a statement. "I swear, my heart, I—"

"I know. I know you do, love."

"Can I say I'm sorry again?"

"No."

"No?"

He kisses the tip of her nose and shakes his head.

"I love you," she says instead.

"I know that as well," he grins and she pinches his side, feeling the fog start to clear from her head as his face grows serious again and his knuckles stroke her cheek. "And I hope you know I wouldn't love you more, if you played the piano brilliantly, and I wouldn't love you less, if you couldn't so much as get on a horse."

Air rushes into her lungs much too fast and Emma is not surprised that he understands something she doesn't even want to explain. She is also not surprised this is the moment she loses the battle with her tears.

"I don't want you to ever doubt that, Emma."

"I don't."

"You do," he says simply, honestly, and it just creates more tears for him to wipe away.

"It's not your fault."

It's the most she can give him in this moment, little as it is – that the wreckage he is trying to salvage is not of his own making and he has just been doing so well that even she forgot how absolutely demolished some parts are.

Killian doesn't seem terribly surprised, he doesn't seem uncomfortable or disappointed, his eyes are full of love and sadness that make them seem even deeper than usual. He looks thoughtful for a moment, his head tilted to the side and studying her as his hand continues to comb her hair and wipe her cheeks.

"It's like your drawings."

"My drawings?"

He ducks his head for a moment but when he looks back at her, she feels like he's pulled back the curtains and let the sun fully inside.

"Aye. The ones you leave everywhere at home."

"Oh. I thought Mrs Lucas threw those away."

"No. I have them."

"You have them?" she can't hide her surprise or the little hitch in her breathing, in her heart.

"Aye, I have them all. I love them all. And yet… it doesn't matter if there will be one more or one less, all that— all that matters is that they are yours."

She swallows heavily and feels her heart beat hard against her chest, trying to get to him. The knowledge that he loves her is still the most wonderful and overwhelming thing she has ever experienced, acquiring an understanding of why and how he loves her feels – much like him – like more than she deserves, and yet, she cannot help but listen and look at him and realize that nothing else could quite soothe her soul like this.

"What I'm trying to say – very badly," he chuckles and she shakes her head, slips her hand up his side, caressing the scars there. "It's that… there are a hundred things I love about you, Emma. I love each of them and yet, in the end, none of them truly matter. Only you matter. The entirety of you."

She feels her mouth open a little but no sound comes out – she is unsure if she will ever be able to produce another sound that isn't her soul sighing and her heart beating for Killian Jones and for him alone.

"Does that sound completely mad?" he chuckles again and it's soft and nervous and this time she slips both arms around him and pulls until he is close enough to feel the heart that she has given him.

"No. I understand perfectly."

He looks at her for a moment before his face breaks into the most beautiful smile – he presses it into her lips and she takes it happily.


	21. Chapter 21

Emma takes some convincing to believe that Nemo has taken no offence – has hardly noticed, if Killian is being honest – her perceived blunder.

On the other hand, their host has hardly failed to notice how well widowhood agrees with lady Belle and it takes only another walk around the estate with Emma's hand tucked safely into his arm and her ear ready and willing to listen to all his little observations for her to agree that the old captain and Mrs Gold appear very comfortable with the minimal distance and abundant conversation between them.

"I thought it was the business of mothers and dotting aunts to make matches," she teases him and Killian turns his head a little to the side, trying and probably failing to hide his embarrassment.

It is hard to keep his gaze away when Emma comes to a sudden halt, yanking him back with her hold on his arm. Her eyes are wide, her mouth slightly open, there is mirth in her features that Killian knows he is the cause of but all he can think about is how sweet and delectable she looks.

"You really do like it!" she exclaims and it's more laughter than words and he does his best to look stern and affronted and not taken with her antics.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, love."

"You like arranging matches for people," she fires back undeterred.

"First, I have arranged nothing. I merely inquired after a friend's well-being. Nemo's invitation for her to dine with us and stay for a few days was completely of his own making. And, second, I have hardly made a habit of predicting, let alone promoting, romance in years."

Emma's eyes don't stray for a moment and narrow dangerously towards the end of his exasperated statement – that's how he knows he has made a mistake somewhere.

"But you did before," she says with conviction that will be startling if he wasn't so damn used to being surprised by her.

And yet, he can only sputter in search of words – denials – in response to her confidence and eventually settles for moving closer instead, leaning down to kiss her cheek and tuck a lock of hair that has escaped her coiffure behind her cold-tinged ear. It's not wholly an attempt to distract her, seeing as these days he is in an almost constant state of restraining his desire to touch her in some way or other.

"If you believe me to have a flair for this sort of thing, I'm afraid I'll only disappoint you, my queen."

Her eyes narrow again and she hums in thought that he is honestly a little apprehensive about but her gloved hand wraps more firmly around his forearm and she starts back down the path. For a few minutes they walk among the sounds of the birds that don't mind the low temperatures and the little pebbles that Emma delights in kicking in every direction. Killian thinks himself safe. Killian is a fool.

"But you _have _done it before," she waves her hand ahead of them, where Nemo and Belle are almost lost from view now.

"Emma," he groans.

"I just find it intriguing, that's all."

"Oh, _intriguing_, is it? You mean because of how unromantic I usually am?"

"What an idea! You are the most romantic man I know."

"You don't know enough men then," he says mostly just to be contradictory and their eyes meet and widen at the same time. "I immediately retract that statement."

Her laughter comes out in a delicate white cloud.

"Good."

"I merely meant that, just because I did not have the chance to properly woo you, does not mean I have no notion of the concept."

"I felt plenty wooed."

Her voice is playful and her smile coquettish and he feels the warmth of her happiness unfurl inside him and yet, he can't help the spark of indignation at the fact that she doesn't know how much more she should expect.

In the heyday of their romance, he took Milah to every dance, play or exhibition that a lady might wish to attend and showered her with gifts nearly every week. What is more, he felt like he knew the right thing to say or do to charm, amuse or reassure her in every situation.

He doesn't know if it's age or experience – if he has changed or if he merely sees himself and the world more clearly now – but something has undermined that sheer arrogance. For now he knows that there are some things that are beyond anyone's control and some moments which words cannot quite encompass.

Then again, Emma doesn't seem to desire a social life that he will have to strain himself to give her and, while he is finding more and more words to express his devotion to her, he thinks she doesn't care much for what they do or say as long as they are together.

Still, part of him wishes he'd met her in a situation that allowed him to court her properly, to show her how she should've been treated all along, but most of him is focused on the fact that her already being his wife needn't deter him from doing so anyway.

/

She moves slowly at first, almost cautiously, afraid to rise too high or fall too fast, exhilarated and yet self-conscious of the power she has. She flexes her fingers over his skin and squeezes her thighs around him, letting her head drop back and her back arch as far as it will go.

Unsurprisingly, Killian was right – she likes this. It feels much more like a dance, the thrill of riding combined with the thrill of _him_. She opens her eyes and leans down, her hair closing around them. Killian lets go of her hip and brushes away the strands that fall on his lips, his hand slipping to the back of her neck and pulling her mouth forcefully down to his.

He likes this too. That doesn't really surprise her either.

She never thought anyone liked having someone else in control, guiding them where they wanted to go, choosing the pace and destination. Every journey – of the world or the heart – that he has taken her on has worked to change her mind, to show her how much she can enjoy – revel in, truly – being guided by his hand.

Unconsciously, instinctively, she believed a woman could never have that power, not over a man, not to his _enjoyment_. He is changing her mind about that too.

It's different when she can feel his ecstasy all the way to the end, when she can feel his groans of pleasure reverberate inside her, when she can keep him there seemingly forever. It's better and, for the first time, Emma is certain that, if it could never be more than this, them, coming together again and again, it will be enough.

He tells her later, as they lie face to face, their skin still a little flushed and her leg thrown over his, her fingers toying with the hairs under his bellybutton and his stump fitting right in the bent of her knee.

He tells her that Elsa was introduced to him first but one look at his brother's face at the next ball made Killian plead off dancing for the night. He tells her how uncertain Alice was about wanting and accepting more than Robin's friendship, about the pages she filled with reasons not to listen to her heart and the ones he wrote back to her, rebutting each one.

He tells her how frustrating it felt to not be able to talk his own damn self into some semblance of happiness, how foreign and ill-fitting the concept of love became when he tried to mold it to his own life, so she pulls him into her, binding her arms around him and kissing the thoughtful lines on his face until he laughs without breath and she knows he doesn't have to talk himself into anything now.

She tells him the concept of love and the reality of him are one and the same to her.

/

"Why do I even bother?"

It's the most hostile sound she has heard Mrs Gold make in the last two days, accompanied by the very unladylike manner in which she tosses her cards on the table and leans back in her chair with a groan.

It makes Emma like her more – those not so perfect quirks and motions that the other woman is beginning to let slip around her. She supposes her own much friendlier attitude might have something to do with it.

"You should know your husband is a cheat."

Emma's incredulous eyes fly from Belle's pointed look to Killian's glowering one.

"I'll have you know I haven't cheated once tonight."

Emma scrutinizes him and the slight flush as he shuffles the cards one-handed.

"That doesn't mean you never do."

"I assure you, love, cards and dice are the only things I take liberties with."

He winks at Emma as he tosses the cards to Captain Nemo but she feels the prickle of guilt at the nape of her neck despite his blasé attitude.

Even though they are almost the same age, Belle acts as if Killian is her little brother no less than Liam does and Emma has spent the better part of the last couple of days bouncing between feeling ridiculous and absolutely rotten for despising Belle for an evening and making Killian think that she could ever doubt his faithfulness.

"Come now, my lady," Nemo's amusement cuts thought the fog of her thoughts just in time for her to take the cards he hands her, while still addressing Belle. "I'm sure Killian will behave in the presence of his wife."

Killian sends her a look that makes her swallow hastily and glower down at her cards. They will be leaving tomorrow and she is determined that they shall make the most of Captain Nemo and Mrs Gold's company tonight.

"I have yet to win a hand so I'm tempted to encourage some misbehavior," the words are out of her mouth before she can think them over and the way Killian's leg bumps hers under the table feels less than deliberate.

She smiles innocently at Belle's choked laugh and does her utmost to avoid her husband's eyes.

When she wins the next game, there is no doubt in her mind how it came about.

/

Emma's been having doubts for the last half an hour, doubts she has dismissed because she has hardly travelled at all and Killian certainly knows where the house he has lived in for years is located. Except it's been half an hour and Killian is dozing off on her shoulder and she is sure that there weren't this many turns on the way to Captain Nemo's estate.

"Killian," she brushes his hair back and hesitates at the peaceful expression on his face.

Then she feels the carriage tilt a little to the side and increases her efforts to _not_ think about the worst possible reasons why they might be going the wrong way.

"Wake up, my heart," she strokes her fingers over the almost white hair at his temples until his eyes flutter open.

Killian press further into her and turns his head a little to kiss her shoulder, his nose skirting the edge of silk and skin.

"What's the matter, love?"

"I'm sorry, I just… Killian, I think we are going the wrong way."

For half a breath she feels his body go rigid against hers and her heart manages to fit three whole beats into the moment before his lips quirk against her skin. She can't help how loud her gasp is when his teeth sink into her.

"Have I told you that you are a very clever woman, Mrs Jones?"

"I—I don't think… you have."

He makes a sound of displeasure, his chin leaves her shoulder and in the next moment she feels the cold point of his nose right behind her ear, sending a shiver down her entire left side.

"You are. On occasion you can be less bright and observant so I might have the chance to surprise you from time to time as well."

"Oh," she raises her hand to the back of his head to urge him closer still, his words not truly registering for a few seconds, except for the deep cadence of them that makes her stomach clench. "Wait, you— Oh, you know we are not going home?"

"We are. We are just taking a more scenery road back."

"But we're not— oh, Killian," she hitches her skirts up even though they seem to do little to impede him. "We're not looking at the scenery."

He pulls back enough that she can see the mischief and teasing dancing in his eyes.

"Would you like to?"

She pulls him into a kiss.

/

He watches her face, coveting every expression, as he helps her out of the carriage and the first strong gust of wind and spray plasters her skirts to her legs and whips her hair in every imaginable direction. He feels something soft and tickling right in the middle of his chest at she frowns and squints at first, obviously questioning his decision to make them step out into the coldness and humidity. Then she takes in the world around her – the awe-inspiring cliffs and pitch-black rocks and the water stretching out as far as the eye can see.

As her hand rises to her open mouth and her eyes widen, he grabs and tucks away every movement quicker than the best pickpocket.

"Oh."

She glances at him with her big, bright eyes and he feels a sudden urge to drop to his knees before her. If she were not his wife already, he would have probably done so indeed. As it is, he squeezes the small hand that still rests in his and ushers her away from the dirt road and up a narrow, winding trail that leads to the top of the wide cliff.

He is ready to help her up the slight incline but completely unsurprised when she lets go of him and scrambles up ahead, her skirts darkening at the bottom with every step and her hair becoming more and more of a mess. But he is there to steady her when she gets to the top and staggers a little backwards at the fierce press of the wind. In no time at all, there are little spatters of water on her cheeks and her eyes are still as wide as he has ever seen them, her breathing a little labored from the climb and her scarf askew. Killian adjust the heavy material to cover her neck and shoulders but makes no futile attempts to arrange her hair.

"It's… it's so… vast and wild."

He hums in agreement and watches her take a few steps closer to the edge, the sea spray reaches him mixed with her scent and he knows this is one of those moments memory can never quite replicate after, one of those moments that are all life and here and now and joy to be alive. He stays back for a minute or two and lives in it.

When he comes up behind her, she reaches for him without turning around and draws his arms around her waist.

"Thank you."

He presses his lips against the side of her head and pulls his shoulders forward and around her to protect her from the chill.

"I will bring you again in the summer," he promises. "When it's softer and warmer and you can bury your feet in the sands below."

She hums.

"I can think of other things we could do in the sand," she says with laughter in her voice.

Killian groans and pulls her further into him even as he wonders if she has always been like this or if it's him bringing out the worst in her. It seems to him that he has successfully found sea on land, for sometimes Emma is just as wild and vast as the one before them.

When she turns around in his arms, the rough winds have brought colour to her cheeks and it takes her a moment to swipe all the hair out of her eyes. He is about to ask if she wants to get back to the carriage when one of her hands slips behind his neck and the other settles on the side of his face. The upturn of her lips and her thumb running tenderly under his eyes have the kind of hypnotic effect that makes him forget there is anywhere else for them to be.

"I used to dream of the sea," she says and he can almost feel her words on his own mouth. "The horizon is not something you can imagine, I suppose, but I thought… I thought no shade of blue could quite match yours."

He feels his cheeks sting from something another than the cold air around them and he wants to tell her that she has to wait and see the water under the August sunshine.

"I was right."

But then, he realizes it won't change her mind.

/

"I'm not sure I feel comfortable with this."

"Oh, dear—"

"It's all my fault and you have to make it all right and—"

"That's not true at all."

"Of course, it is. If it wasn't for your father—"

"Yes, but you cannot possibly think he wouldn't wish us to—"

"And what about his wife?"

"She is lovely."

"Oh, alright, doesn't mean she wouldn't feel like we are intruding on—"

"Intruding!"

"Well, yes. You _cannot _know how she would feel about—"

"Then you should write to her."

"Me? I don't even know the woman!"

"It's no matter. I would write to papa and you can enclose your letter inside."

"I don't— That is I—"

"Yes, this is a splendid idea actually. We _should _ask Emma."

"But must _I_—"

"Well, it was _your_ splendid idea."

"Aren't they always?"

"You like to think so."

/

They arrive late into the night – Killian rotating his left shoulder with a grimace and Emma moving sluggishly and tripping on the heavy skirts of her dress – but Granny is still up and waiting and, if Emma didn't know better, she'd say she missed them.

They have a quick cup of tea to warm up but all of the cook's attempts to find out how their trip was and what they'd like for breakfast tomorrow morning are less successful so, eventually, she just sends them to bed with a roll of her eyes and a motion that is half irritation and half indulgence.

So it's late the next day – too late to count for breakfast – her face scrubbed clean and her limbs well-rested that Emma finally starts telling Ruby and Granny – even as she keeps coming and going and pretending to not listen to her just as attentively as her granddaughter – about Captain Nemo's treasures, sprawling forests and wild waves. She can only give them half her attention though, as the other half is focused on ignoring Killian's smiles and indulgent looks, lest he steals all of it.

So when he hands her a letter, she doesn't even bother to assume if it's from Mary Margaret or Alice or Elsa, she just sets it in her lap, playing with the edges as she tells her stories. By the time she is finished, Killian's has retired to his study and it's only after she looks down, unfolds the piece of paper and blinks a few times at the elegantly scrawled name there that she follows him.

His door is slightly ajar in waiting.

"Killian, I— I think there's been some mistake."

He looks up and gives her a quick smile – there is some emotion waiting to spread all over his features, trepidation or excitement, something expectant shimmering at the edges of his eyes.

"I was rather puzzled at first as well but after reading Alice's letter, I can assure you this one is for you."

"But I've never even met Miss Hood," she frowns down at the white sheet and reaches blindly for the armchair behind her.

She remembers receiving another letter, what feels like years ago, from a lady that she didn't feel was her place to correspond with. She wonders if this one will be as monumental as the last.

"Aye, she and Alice both apologize for the presumption but… they felt it paramount to write to you personally."

"What is this about?"

Killian sighs and now she is certain there is some anxiety there and some pressing joy as well.

"Just read it, love. Then we can talk about it."

It's not a long letter, neither as emotional and sporadic as Alice's, nor as genteel and well-worded as Elsa's, but it makes something gather in Emma's throat all the same.

"I—I don't understand," she mumbles as she finishes and wracks her hand through her hair, pulling a little at the roots. "Why would she write to me? This is all your…"

She is grateful that Killian makes his way to her, for she is too agitated to do much of anything other than feel uncomfortable in this position that is hers and yet more than she realized. He bends his knees and sits down at her feet, taking the hand that is still holding Miss Hood's letter and setting it to the side so he can lace their fingers together.

"This is your home as much as mine, Emma, and—"

"That's nonsense! You made all this, you've lived here for two decades, I've— I've—"

Killian frowns and sets his chin on her knee and despite the tumult of emotions inside her, her hand automatically goes to his hair.

"Did you not feel like you came home last night?"

"Of course, I did. But that's not— I'm not—"

"You are mistress of the house, it is only right that they should ask you."

"Not _Alice_. Does she truly think I would ever—"

"No, no, Emma, listen to me," he squeezes her hand. "Of course she doesn't. And of course I would never deny my daughter. It's her house as much as ours but Robyn – much as I love and admire the girl – she has done very well, in my opinion, in asking you permission."

"I— I'm sorry," Emma shakes her head and flattens her hand against his cheek. "Of course, I— _Of course_, I wouldn't mind having them here. It just felt too much to be…"

Killian lifts an eyebrow, his mouth set in a line for a moment.

"To be given the respect you deserve?"

She huffs and rolls her eyes in return.

"I don't— It should be your decision."

"It should be our decision but were it mine, I'd still want your opinion."

She blinks down at him and sighs, pulling their joined hands to her lips.

"I've wanted to get my chance to spend time with Miss Hood since I heard her name. And I love you very much, my heart, but I do miss Alice terribly when you are away."

Killian's smile is brilliant and lights up the whole room for a moment before his eyes grow more thoughtful and his tongue flits restlessly over his lips.

"What is it?"

"I just… I would love to have them here. I'm glad they've done it properly and gathered your approval as well but…"

She frowns in confusion. Unlike Admiral Jones and Captain Nemo's residences, their house has never felt too big and echoing with it to Emma but she would love to have it fuller still.

"I'm afraid she is doing this for everyone but herself."

"Robyn?"

"Alice."

"Alice?" her confusion doubles and she urges Killian to move back so she can sit down beside him, one of her hands settling over his heart.

"She writes that she thinks Robyn quite miserable and restless from being so close to the mother and city that betrayed her and she goes on how it is wasteful and unnecessary for me to be keeping up a place just for the two of them and I just… She hasn't been here – not to stay, not indefinitely – in years, Emma. I worry that she will be the one that grows miserable and restless."

She doesn't respond right away, she knows it is natural that he should always worry about his daughter, even when faced with the possibility of something he himself wants so much. She supposes all the best parents do.

"My heart, what has Alice wanted most? What does she love best?"

Killian frowns at her and Emma tilts her head and smiles softly.

"You. And Robyn. Do you truly believe it will not make her happy – happier than she has ever had the chance to be – to have you both in the same place."

"I'm just not sure it will be safe for them here."

She knows, she knows he is not afraid of the responsibility of keeping them safe but of the failure to do so.

"There is always a risk, no matter where they are," she acknowledges plainly. "But they know that, Killian. It's… it's their life. And I _know_ they will be and feel much safer with us."

For a few moments he just looks at her and Emma doesn't need him to say how glad he is that she is here.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright. Would you like to write back to them, Mrs Jones?"

She smiles and pushes up on her knees to claim his lips with hers.

"It would be my pleasure."


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Hey, guys, sorry for the longer wait. Currently hyperfixating on Ineffable Husbands but I'm not leaving those babies right before the end point so no worries ;)

* * *

Upon Alice and Robyn's arrival, Emma's life seems to settle for the first time in what is in reality less than half a year but feels very much like a couple of lifetimes. It's a peculiar feeling to associate with the girls who, more often than not, move like little pocket hurricanes through the house and leave traces of themselves like debris behind.

Emma expects, is almost familiar with, Alice's uncontainable energy, the childlike capacity for wonder and the safety to be herself and even a bit wilder, a bit freer – somehow more than the self that she presents to most of the world. It's all Killian's presence boosted even further, made sweeter, by Robyn's.

It's this other young lady that has surprised Mrs Jones. Robyn is all propriety and politeness at first, somewhat quieter than the vague image Emma formed in her head based on Killian and Alice's stories, somewhat more subdued – her hair always pulled back and her movements strong but contained, her blush fierce whenever Alice's hand would brush against hers or Alice's lips would peck her cheek in front of Emma and Killian.

In all fairness, Emma knows – knows from personal experience – that it makes perfect sense for Robyn to be a bit more reserved, a bit more cautious. It just isn't what she expected. Which is probably for the best. Since it lasts all of a week.

A week and some gradually warmer weather is all it takes for Robyn to start cajoling Emma into trying her aim at one of the practice targets that Killian put up at the very back of the grounds for the girls. A week for Robyn to accept Emma's offer to take Buttercup out for a ride with Jolly and Alice. A week for her to start coming down to breakfast with her hair in a state that makes Ruby groan in near pain. A week for her to settle hip to hip with Alice in the library and another to rest her head in Alice's lap while they race each other over the identical copies of whatever book Killian has bought them last.

"You do know this is all on you, don't you?"

Emma looks away from the dissolving clumps of cinnamon in her cocoa and picks both mugs, heading toward the door and inclining her head in an invitation for her husband to follow. She and Killian retiring to their bedroom before midnight is another development that has been, at least partially, brought on by the girls' presence and their love for lazing around in the library late into the night. Emma has settled into that without too much protest as well.

"What is?" she asks on her way up the stairs and grins at the way Killian glances down the corridor, toward the library door – part guilt and part suspicion that Emma has decided only parents can imbue with quite so much fondness and frustration at the same time.

"This. The usurpation."

Her laughter makes a little bit of cocoa slosh over the rim of one mug and she bites her lip and glances guiltily at the spot on the stairs but Killian waves a dismissive hand and urges her up the stairs. Emma likes to think she would have normally protested and made them stop and clean up but his urging takes the form of his hand fitting neatly under her bottom and almost lifting her toward the next rung so she feels decidedly overruled on this one.

"Usurpation?" she giggles again as Killian crowds her against their bedroom door for a moment before turning the handle.

"Aye. I've been going to bed at a time befitting a gentleman quite a bit older than myself for weeks now."

"Ah, yes, because it is all peaceful rest that transpires in this room."

Emma does so love the way she can still make her eloquent husband sputter with barely an allusion to bedroom activities.

"That is entirely beside the point, love. I adore my daughter and I'm absolutely delighted how at ease you have set Robyn. But frankly, a father is happy with the abstract knowledge of his daughter's successful romance, not very concrete encounters with it."

There is a barely restrained current of amusement under Killian's words and Emma makes sure that he sees her eyeroll and her knowing look before she sets their mugs on the floor before the fireplace and sits down with her back to him.

Killian's knees press under the small of her back as he lowers himself behind her and works his clever fingers beneath the laces of her dress.

Of course, he is not entirely unjustified in his indignation, however playful.

When the library was usurped, as he put it, they tried sequestering themselves in his study but Killian found the idea of spending his evenings where he spend the majority of his days understandably less than appealing. Any period longer than the time required for the manifestation of some hot chocolate in the kitchen earned them Granny's vocal displeasure and, as soon as the world outside started thawing, the chances of them running into Alice and Robyn in the garden were just as good as stumbling on an intimate scene in the library. Alice maintains that her father built that swing in the back for her so really it is them who have been trespassing.

And Emma has to agree with Killian – she is overjoyed to see the girls happy and in love but the image of her step-daughter loosening a corset is not one she needs imprinted on her mind. So, their bedroom it is – the last stronghold that they haven't happily relinquished control of.

"What do you mean _I_ have set Robyn at ease?" she twists her head to look at Killian over her shoulder.

He gives her a look that says he can answer her immediately but instead takes his time to finish undoing her dress and run his fingers through her hair a few times even though it has been free and loose all day.

"I'm confident in the very amicable relationship I have with Robyn," he starts eventually, when Emma turns around to face him and takes a sip of her drink. "But surely you realize that it is you who has made her feel comfortable and at home here, my queen."

"I wouldn't say— That is I have…"

She has been trying to do exactly that actually, she just never connected the desired result with her efforts.

"I think it was the horse," Killian says with a light in his eyes that she suspects has much to do with her own expression of realization. "I'd never let her ride my horse."

"You'd never let _anyone_ ride Roger and thank god for that. He'd probably kill just about anyone else."

Killian hums as if the idea has quite a bit of merit and he is perfectly alright with that. When he moves to kiss her, the vision of him astride his gorgeous and equally dangerous beast is not far from her mind.

/

She is already naked, still kneeling in front of the fireplace but now with her husband pressed fully –intimately – against her back, his hand low on her stomach, holding her to him and upright and grounded – she is already half gone by the time the thought crosses her mind – of the possible consequences of this, of the desired consequences.

At first, Emma was almost afraid that it will spoil it, that the constant hope and expectation and wondering of _maybe this time_ will erode some of the sheer enjoyment of making love to Killian. She thinks maybe it did, the first few days – not so much erode as strain, add a particular weight to the act, send vibrations of anticipation along the link between them. But it is rather difficult to anticipate anything else when she has Killian all around her, inside her. The answer of him outweighing any question of anything else.

And then, a couple of weeks after she convinced her husband that they should at least _try_, on a night when they came to bed late, after too much food and some wine, and came together with the minimal amount of movement and effort and removal of nightclothes required, Emma realized that if they never get there, if she never gets anything but this, it will be alright. It will be more than alright, it will be enough for her to be iridescently happy for the rest of her days.

And now, as Killian's hand slips lower and she can feel the scratch of his hair and the cool points of his nipples against her back, as he whispers things that make her bite her lip and try to swallow down the tidal wave in her chest, she forgets there is any point to this other than chasing that hill that Killian has shown her how to climb and making him jump off with her.

/

None of that can quite keep down the instinctive longing she feels when she holds Mary Margaret's newborn son for the first time but it certainly helps her smile and coo at him in genuine delight instead of masked resentment.

He is healthy and lovely and Mary Margaret looks so splendid and relaxed that Emma has a hard time imagining Leo's birth including anything but her friend smiling serenely and sighing happily as she coaxes her baby to join her into the world with just a few whispered words. It's a preposterous image, of course, but the more Emma listens to Mary's lilting voice and watches her cradle her baby, the more she cannot picture anything else. There is a vague thought at the back of her mind that, even if she were able to bring a child into the world, there is no way she is able to do it as gracefully and seemingly effortlessly as Mary Margaret.

So she spends all her joy in the Nolan's picturesque home and she stares unseeingly out of the window on the ride back home and then, as soon as she sets foot on the stones leading to the house, she has another vision in her mind. One of her finally taking one of Robyn's bows and shooting arrow after arrow at the target, each one sinking it with satisfying success, perfect execution, perfect control. She starts walking around the house before she has had time to scoff at herself.

And Robyn is exactly where Emma imagined she would be, alone like she imagined she would be. It fuels Emma's fantasy.

"Emma!"

The girl smiles brightly at her. She stopped calling her Mrs Jones around the time she stopped glaring at Alice every time she tugged on Robyn's braid to try and bring her cheek to Alice's lips.

Emma's dramatic response is to throw her hat to the damp grass, pulling a few hairs on the way and squaring her shoulders. She doesn't ask, she just takes one of the bows Robyn is not using. Emma has always been good enough with her hands, she only needs to see something done once or twice to be able to replicate it almost exactly. This is probably the reason she actually manages to cock the arrow properly. The adrenaline in her veins and the vision in her mind's eye is probably the reason she manages to pull her arm back, a tremble going down her spine as she lets the arrow fly.

It shouldn't be a surprise, it should be anything but, when the arrow dives down and falls impotently to the grass before even reaching the target.

Some part of Emma hears Robyn make a sputtering, helpless sound but all the rest of her is focused on keeping her muscles from shaking off the bones of her arm as she pulls another arrow back and watches it sail far to the left.

"Emma, let me at least show—"

The third one she can't even pull all the way back and it takes everything inside her not to throw the bow to the ground and stomp her foot like a petulant child.

Then Emma feels a pair of arms wrap around her and with a little twist, a strangled sound and a hum that almost manages to settle her trembling hands, half of her weight is no longer on her feet, her fingers grapple with unfamiliar fabric and her face is buried in blonde curls. For the next few minutes she just clings to Alice.

"First time around, I couldn't even pull it all the way back."

The words are warm against the side of Emma's head, the levity inside them isn't really forced and there is a thread of admiration running through them that Emma doesn't deny herself from picking up.

"Oh, yes, I'm a natural."

She feels the vibrations of her and Alice's laughter undulate against each other and flow together.

"I wouldn't rule it out," Robyn's voice is tentative behind them and Emma lets one of her arms drop away from Alice so she can turn around and give her an apologetic smile. "It's not really… an emotional sport."

Emma manages to chuckle a little and nods.

"Maybe you can give me a proper lesson and demonstration. Tomorrow?"

Robyn's smile is bright and excited and Alice's hand tightens on Emma's waist and Emma feels the little pockets of emptiness that tried to fit themselves into her heart filling again.

"I think papa was just going for a ride."

Emma gives Alice a grateful smile and Robyn one last hopeful look.

"Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow. Go on before I make you gather the arrows you shot."

She doesn't feel all that childish when she runs off or perhaps she just doesn't care.

/

Killian has just swung into his saddle when she rounds the corner of the stables. She supposes the pinkness of her face, the labored breathing and her hair flying all over the place justifies the startled look on his face but she lifts her hand to stop him from getting off his horse and makes her way to him at a slightly more reasonable pace.

"Take me with you, my heart?"

She holds her hand towards him and doesn't squirm or doubt when Killian looks her over with a raised eyebrow and narrowed eyes before he nods and helps her settle behind him. Roger makes a noise that seems to indicate that this is a one time thing that they are being allowed and then they are off.

They ride in silence until the house looks like she can put it in her pocket. Killian knows where she was, he offered to go with her, she thinks next time she will let him. But she doesn't regret going alone now, she doesn't even regret her display with the bow and arrows, she doesn't regret anything at all as she presses her breasts firmly into Killian's back, her hands into his sides and her nose into the hair on the back of his neck.

It's so different from leaning into Alice's softness and hanging onto a frame no bigger than her own but the certainty that they will hold her up and keep her until she grows warm and sure again is almost identical.

/

They come back when the sun has almost completely disappeared, both starting to shiver a little from the early spring wind. The damp patches on his trousers hardly help, he has missed one leaf in Emma's hair and quite a few little twigs that embedded themselves in her coat, so Killian squeezes her wrist and drags his wife up the stairs before anyone can catch sight of them. He will have to forsake the right to grumble and roll his eyes at Alice and Robyn if either sees them in this state. Though they might go easy on Emma today from what she told him – he squeezes her soft hand again and pulls her closer to his side as they rush into their room and start the process of making each other presentable again.

He watches her carefully still, trying to spot a certain rigidness in her shoulders or a tightening around her mouth but it's all gone now. He runs his hand down her spine as she takes off his brace and kisses the corners of her lips while she tries to tame his hair, just to make sure.

It's mostly habit that makes Killian peak into the library when they make their way back downstairs and he does a double take when he finds it empty. They exchange a disbelieving look but make quick work of spreading themselves over the pillows left in front of the fire. The look Granny gives them upon entering the room makes it quite clear that she still hasn't decided who is the most immature individual living under this roof.

"Supper will be another hour, seeing as the Misses decided to take a bath."

Killian honestly has no idea what possesses him to arrange his features the way he does or say what he does – no idea other than the warmth of the fire and Emma's head on his thigh where she has buried her nose in a novel she has been trying to snatch from Alice for a week, no idea but wanting to see Granny put her hands on her hips and huff and storm out.

"Ah, that is quite alright. Perhaps, in the meantime, you can bring us some of those biscuits Ruby was making earlier."

Granny doesn't disappoint him.

/

Killian Jones has spent a likely disconcerting amount of his 40 years of life on the floor.

When he was young, the day the summer firmly turned the tide and the heat overpowered even the night coldness, he would sneak a blanket from under his mother's nose and go to sleep on the still warm grass outside, trying to read words in the stars until his eyes betrayed him. He doesn't count those years on the grass.

When he was in the Navy, few things rankled more than sharing space with men that were as far from the title of a "gentleman" as one could get and yet, space on a ship was scarce and sharing it was not really a question of preference and sensibility, so he would trudge up from the crew's quarters and find himself a square of planks that looked almost as fine as the bunks below them and try to remember what stories he used to read in the stars when he was young. He doesn't count those years on the planks.

When he returned from sea, the concept of earth under his feet at all times seemed preposterous and yet, the sight and feel of chairs and settees seemed even more so, and when he could get away with it – meaning not around Liam or anyone they did business with and not around any ladies (not until Milah) who felt it an offence to be in the company of someone so queer about such a simple matter as sitting – he would much rather sit on the floor than on any furniture designed for that express purpose. He doesn't count those years on the floor.

When Alice was born, with all her quick little limbs and her devious little mind, with her innocent baby face and all her ideas defying gravity and logic, he found it much sounder to spread his papers and books on the carpet around her, to keep pen and paper and baby all within the reach of his hands – not to mention, how much better he could delight in exactly those devious little tricks of hers when they were sharing almost the same height and surface. He doesn't count those years on the carpet.

When they came back from the war, it was Liam who would grab two pillows and throw them before the fireplace whenever Killian stayed over after dinner dragged on too long or the rum kept flowing a bit too late, and Killian never quite figured out if his brother did it for him or for himself and perhaps he was reluctant to ask because it was the best sleep he got for the first couple of years after and perhaps because, whoever it was for, they both needed it. He does count those years in front of the fire.

When he got married, nothing felt quite right – not taking her arm when they walked down the street, not introducing her as the mistress of the house to staff and guests alike, not sharing a table with her on the occasion when he slept in too late or got lured into the dining room around supper, not raising a child with her – to whatever degree what she did could be called raising anything, rather than bringing down things that Alice had cultivated herself or Killian had carefully, secretly, nurtured, and certainly not sharing a bed with her, so he was rather glad for all the practice he'd had of sleeping on grass and planks and carpets alike so that, when he couldn't stomach the thought of lying down beside her and couldn't escape the room altogether, the floor felt like no big sacrifice. He does count those years on the floor.

When Milah was gone for honour and Eloise was gone because the world had decided to finally let him breathe a little and Alice was gone because he loved her too much, he had all the rooms and beds and linen that one could wish for and that, most likely, was why every other week he would still find himself sleeping on the floor before the fireplace – not with his brother because his brother had grown up and then he'd healed and then he'd found love that he could keep – thinking that maybe the following night he would take a blanket and sneak out into the back garden and see if there has been anything new written in the stars. He does count those lonely years on his own.

Now he remembers the last time he slept on the floor. A month ago? A bit more? They hadn't made love on the floor the way they had a number of times before, hadn't even taken more than one pillow and the throw from the armchair a couple of feet away. They hadn't meant to stay there that long at all and then, the next thing Killian was aware of was the sunshine hitting his face at an unusual angle and his back feeling stiff beneath him and his neck doubly so, and then he opened his eyes to see his bedroom ceiling from a point that he hadn't in a while, since some weeks before Emma first set foot in the house, with the woman in question, lying on his chest, her arm wrapped uselessly around the only pillow that neither of them seemed to have used and snoring lightly in a way that made him want to laugh and wake her with kisses to the back of her neck all in the same breath. He does count that morning.

All in all, his time lying on the floor has vastly improved as of late but this – this is by far his favourite. So he tries to catalogue and store away all the details – the soft depths of the pillow under his head, the scratch of the carpet under his right elbow where Emma rolled up his sleeve as he was preparing drinks; the smell of chocolate and cardamom tea and something stronger that he and Robyn spiced their respective beverages with; the quiet, random popping of the logs in the fireplace and the faintest traces of smoke in the warm air; the texture of the book he keeps splayed open with his fingers and the light rasp of the page under his thumb; the feel of Emma's toes digging into his shoulder as they all lie in a circle of their own making, their shoes lined perfectly under the table.

It feels like a scene from a children's book, he would bet it looks like one as well. He feels his skin itch from the joy of it.

"Now, how does this work exactly, darling?" he tries to introduce some reluctance into his tone but is afraid it comes out just painfully fond.

"You read a page and then I read the next and then Robyn reads the next and then Emma reads the next and then it's you again."

"Right. Splendid. But what precisely is the purpose of this orchestrated reading?"

"The purpose is that we all read at the same speed and I do not find out that Beth is going to die because Emma gasped in horror ten pages ahead."

Killian tilts his head back to watch in amusement as his wife's face floods with color.

"And I reckon it would be rather nice, don't you?"

He drops his chin to his chest so he can now catch his daughter who has propped herself on his knee, her eyes bright and wide and so earnest that he can't do anything but agree.

Before the night is through, the book makes ten full turns around their circle, passing from hand to hand, sighs and grumbles and indignant exclamations when it is dropped and the page lost, but mostly the pleasant change of tone and tempo as they take their turns and experience the story together.

Killian doesn't know when he falls asleep – it might have been Alice's too gentle voice or Robyn's somewhat unadorned reading or perhaps the calming sound of Emma's tones that his mind associates with safety and rest. He imagines she went to pass him the book, keeping her ring finger carefully marking the page, only to not find his hand waiting to receive it. He imagines Alice rolled her eyes and made a comment and Robyn shushed her and urged her up with a squeeze of her ankle and Emma marked the page and shuffled closer to him. He is quite certain about that last one because he wakes up on the floor, to the fire almost dying and the girls long in bed, with Emma's front pressed against his side, her fingers running absent-mindedly though his hair and her breath teasing his throat.

He most certainly counts this one.


	23. Chapter 23

You all know it's been 84 years so I just hope this is worth the wait. Just one more after this, which hopefully won't take me another month.

* * *

In recent months, Mrs Emma Jones has discovered an extraordinary love for the theatre. This is, in some part, the work of her sister and brother-in-law who first invited her and Killian along to a play – Emma and Elsa both finding Liam's choice of _An Ideal Husband _a bit on the nose, much to Killian's endless amusement. Then there is, of course, Alice and Robyn's contribution – a rather significant one, considering Alice's utter fascination with farces and Robyn's almost cultish dedication to Wilde.

Her husband, however, has been all too willing to sweep all credit for himself, smug and self-congratulatory about the whole affair, and Emma cannot quite comprehend why – or so she says to one and all – it's not like he invented the stage.

Yes, Killian has rather good taste, an exceptional eye for smaller productions that are about to become everybody's latest favourite just a week after Captain and Mrs Jones have seen them, and he does know quite a few people – both behind and on stage, though he claims to prefer – and indeed seems to have much better relationships with – the playwrights rather than the actors. Something about men who spend an outrageous amount of their time sequestered in their studies and bent over a small hill of papers flocking together Emma said and received that look from Killian that she so enjoys – part outrage and part amusement, with a thrilling undercurrent of admiration.

Yet, whether or not he deserves credit for her newfound love of the stage, Emma cannot deny enjoying Killian's unaffected manner of speaking with great playwrights, the lithe way he leads her backstage and introduces her to people that she might have felt inadequate and tongue-tied in front of just a year ago. It's different now, less nerve-wracking than she would have guessed. Emma is far from the centre of conversation but, when she has an opinion, she puts it forward and the surprise of people listening and considering and sometimes agreeing with her lessens every time. It's part Killian's hand – warm and solid on the small of her back, part the atmosphere – a place so out of her old life that she feels unmarred and equal here, and maybe, it's part her – not afraid to take whatever space her gown requires and voice whatever thought her mind has deemed intelligent enough.

Emma has had more than one rather stimulating and even entertaining discussion in theatre houses in recent months, it's all rather pleasant and cultured. Most evenings at least. Not that this particular evening is not taking a rather stimulating turn but—

Her back collides with the wall, the sound muted by the plush burgundy curtain that rasps against the hard ridges of her corset's lacing. Her gasp is also muted by Killian's tongue sliding over the roof of her mouth and tangling with her own, the rise and fall of her bosom restricted by his proximity and brushing the velvet material of his vest on every deep breath. She is running rather short on those when his mouth slants less than elegantly across her cheek and the cool tip of his nose burrows behind her ear.

"And you were," Emma takes in a mouthful of air and unconsciously tilts her head and her hips to give him better access to both. "such a gentleman just a minute ago."

There are voices all around them – audience milling around in the great hall just a flight of small stairs away, actors undressing and bemoaning blunders and missteps and forgotten lines in the dressing rooms a narrow hallway to their left and workers already dismantling the stage décor a few less than solid walls behind.

"I plan to be a gentleman in the minute that follows as well, Mrs Jones."

She would scoff at the cockiness in his tone – it's a thrilling discovery when he gets like this sometimes, it's equally delicious to push back, the smug turn of his mouth that she can now feel against her exposed collarbone. She would, but somehow she must have missed the moment when Killian hitched her skirts up enough to sneak his hand between her legs, so the sound she makes is more of a keen, not quite – she would argue – a wail, and just barely stifled as he presses his wooden hand against her mouth at the same time he slips two fingers inside her.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and buckles her hips forward and when two fingers become three, she swallows hard and bites down on his leather glove. Killian's body is like a furnace against hers and she can feel the fine sheen of sweat forming at the back of her neck, under her heavy curls. It takes a minute but when she is sure that she can control the sounds coming out of her mouth, Emma drops her head against the fabric-covered wall behind and makes a valiant attempt to glare at the man who is nosing his way between her breasts and obliterating any hope she might have of looking presentable after this.

"You are a villain, Captain."

His laughter shakes her whole body and his thumb hits that all-important spot and Emma discovers she doesn't quite have those sounds under control after all.

"Do you feel wronged, my queen?"

"I feel positively debauched."

"Debauched, is it? I cannot, in good conscience, say I dislike the sound of that."

"I— Oh! Killian, please."

"Please what?"

"Oh! Ooh, you will— you will regret this."

That makes him pull out of her corset and when his face comes into focus Emma has to admit that she is probably not the only one who looks indecent – Killian's lips are almost swollen pink, contrasting tantalizingly with his greying beard, and his disheveled hair makes her realize that his sojourn between her breasts was not solely his idea. She doesn't have precise knowledge of what she looks like herself, beyond that distinct feeling of debauchery, but the flickers in Killian's eyes tell her that she is a sight indeed.

"No," he shakes his head and bites his lip as he twists his hand, making Emma bite down on her own bottom lip hard. "No, I don't believe I will."

In the end – though this would be merely a precursor rather than an end, if she has any say in the matter – Emma cannot claim she regrets it either. Not when Killian's hand smooths the layers of her gown over her backside and makes a valiant attempt to brush her hair over her shoulders, not when she presses her lips right against his pulse and steps up close enough to feel the tension he has most definitely not relieved, not when they sneak out of the theatre's back entrance, laughing and tripping over less than stable limbs.

/

It's a thinly veiled ploy – _Salome _not being to the gentlemen's taste, Elsa wanting an evening out with the girls before they depart – it's not a _bad_ ploy, Emma is sure they will have a lovely evening, it just doesn't do much to divert her attention from the fact that Killian and Liam are staying in for more than brotherly commiserating.

"I don't think even aunt Elsa wants them to take on more work."

Emma's fingers fumble for a second and she extends her pinkie to hook the hairs she dropped and heave them into Alice's slowly emerging braid. Emma can do her step-daughter's hair in a few short minutes but it didn't take long for her to realize that Alice enjoys having her hair combed and twisted into different shapes and styles. Emma still allows her to do her own (she appreciates the time with Alice and the fact that it results in Killian getting to undo it all in the evening) but it's not hard to convince Alice that they both enjoy this much better.

So, while Robyn is probably already tapping her foot and driving Killian up the wall, Alice and Emma take their time preparing for the outing. Really, Elsa and Liam have yet to arrive so it's not like they are being particularly inconsiderate.

"Well," Emma weaves another strand of curly blond hair into the braid circling Alice's head and bites lightly on her lip. "I do hope she has told him so."

"Did you tell papa?"

Emma's lips quirk up.

"Sweetheart, I'm sure your father is in no two minds about how I feel," Alice tries to twist her head to look at her but Emma keeps her still with a gentle press to her neck. "And you must acknowledge that he has been rather good about it."

"Oh, yes, of course! I just worry you will be bored while we are away visiting Captain Nemo."

Belle and Nemo's wedding just a month prior was a small affair with just over a dozen guests in attendance. It reminded Emma of her own wedding despite the vastly different arrangement between bride and groom. Belle's wealth and position in society was more than secure and respected and the two had been courting since her and Killian's visit and, despite the slight sheen of mortification and vulnerability she associates with that time, Emma can't help feeling somewhat smug for her husband's sake. Killian can protest all he likes but Emma is now convinced that he has a certain sense about these things and it does not lead him astray.

But while the wedding was quaint, the celebration afterwards is still going a month later. Just last week a letter arrived inviting Alice and Robyn to stay at the Captain's estate for some time and put their skills with a bow to practical use. Alice is just as eager to see and talk books with Belle again as she is horrified at the idea of hunting with Captain Nemo. The glimmer in Robyn's eye whenever they talk about it tells Emma that Miss Hood feels somewhat differently about the matter and, frankly, Emma is glad that she will not be around when it all comes to a head.

"While you two have spoiled us for company and entertainment, I'm sure we will find ways to amuse ourselves."

It's not exactly sarcastic and it only as the last two words slip out that Emma realizes the less than innocent connotations they might communicate and she reaches quickly for one of the ribbons on the vanity before them.

"But if papa takes on this new—"

"Alice, truly, you needn't worry about me."

"Oh, alright. I just meant that… shall you wish to, you're more than welcome to join us at any time."

"And leave Killian by himself?"

Touched as Emma is by the offer – they are a particular warmth in her throat, all those little things Alice says and does – she can't quite manage to temper her outraged tone. She feels Alice's chuckle in her shoulders.

"God forbid. And that for more than a day apart," the teasing in Alice's voice is like a tickle in the air and Emma pulls just a little bit harder than she has to as she secures her braid in place, only making Alice giggle again. "I merely meant that it will give him incentive to not lock himself away for too long."

"Well, I'm not aiming to "incent", sweetheart," Emma leans down and whispers conspiratorially as she finishes off Alice's hairdo.

"Never?"

Emma considers this with a bemused smile.

"It's just… Robyn turns such a fetching pink when I'm being difficult."

Emma laughs so loud that she can hear some impatient grumbling from downstairs.

/

She enjoys the play immensely, even if a quarter of her mind is always back at home, wondering if Killian and Liam have moved on to the rum and cigars portion of their evening. It's how they find them an hour later as the girls rush in, chattering endlessly and gesticulating wildly, Alice pulling Robyn before Ruby to illustrate the shape of a gown on one of the actresses that she simply must have (Emma thinks the garment a few notches too risqué but she is amused nonetheless), Granny grumbles and bustles as Elsa asks for a tray of wineglasses and drapes herself over Liam's shoulders, demanding that he wheedle the best wine from his brother.

Emma just looks at Killian – gently, questioningly, and smiles back when he does. He takes her hand without moving too close, kisses her knuckles and winks over the length of her arm. It's enough for her to drop bonelessly in the armchair in the corner and enjoy the girls' antics and Liam's grumbling about missing all the fun for another hour before Admiral and Mrs Jones take their leave. She even manages to keep her lips pressed firmly together while Killian ushers Alice to bed, promising to go riding with her tomorrow, Granny already prophesying how late breakfast will be.

She makes it all the way to the moment when she slips in bed, watching Killian take off his shirt and his brace, ruffle his hair and down a glass of water, trying to clean out the taste of rum probably. She is more than willing to help him with that as soon as the bed dips under his weight.

"How did Liam's attack go?"

She feels his laughter as he wraps his arms around her and tugs her close.

"Love, I fear you are still much mistaken about my brother's position when it comes to business. If we could deal with no one at all and take on as little work as possible, Liam would be most content. Though he probably won't like balancing the accounts afterwards."

"Yes, it's you being the voice of reason that worries me, my heart."

"Ah," Killian's hand slips up the back of her thigh, his fingers spreading to make contact with as much skin as possible. "It seems I'm being quite… unreasonable as well."

Emma believes that the position she is currently in – with her husband's leg between her own and his long fingers definitively heading places – justifies the slight delay with which she absorbs his words.

"Y-you are?"

"Aye, terribly unreasonable. Told my brother we should turn down this flush gentleman because my daughter and her lady are going away for a month and I wish to have my wife in every room—"

"Killian!"

"And under every tree in the garden"

"You did not."

"Mm, not in those precise words but, trust me, my meaning was quite clear."

"I— Well, then—"

Emma truly – foolishly – believed that the days of being flustered by her husband were behind her.

"Of course," Killian continues in a nonchalant tone that would annoy her if other things he is currently doing didn't please her quite so much. "This does not mean that we should let our form slip now."

His teeth close over the shape of her breast and Emma barely manages to remember that they are not yet alone in the house.

/

"I'm shamefully happy."

Killian's heart lurches and his head snaps around to look at his daughter who is trying to determine how many cherries she can fit in her mouth at once. He knows her record is nine, he also knows he is supposed to scowl and tell her how unladylike the whole thing is. Frankly, he is just still a bit sour that she beat him by one bloody cherry.

"Nothing shameful about it, sweetheart."

Alice tries to reply around a mouthful of merely five cherries but it's still enough to be a bit of a disaster. Her eyes widen with a touch of embarrassment and a whole lot of amusement as she pushes her fingers against her lips, chews, spits three pits out, chews, spits another, swallows, squeezes one eye shut in annoyance with the wrong cherries to pits ratio and wipes her hand over mouth.

"It's shameful, the way having half a dozen cherries at once is," she says as if this is the most obvious metaphor in the world and Killian grins at her.

"That's never spotted you before."

Her grin is cherry-red and awfully smug and he thinks maybe he is shamefully happy as well.

/

Killian cannot say he doesn't miss the girls when they set off for Nemo's estate. There is a certain immutability about the house all of a sudden – a room is always just the same as it was when he last walked out of it now – things actually remaining in their places, no books and bonnets and knickknacks of all sorts appearing seemingly out of nowhere between one moment and the next.

He enjoys the calm to a degree and then his thoughts reel up unexpected – the way Roger does when he feels like he has been confined to a sedate pace for much too long – and rush forward into unexplored territories.

Well, hardly unexplored but certainly tentatively so.

For the first handful of months after Emma convinced him that they should play dice with things Killian would've preferred to keep securely within his grasp and control, there was an almost constant hum of tension about him – not quite unwillingness and not just worry but something waiting and anxious and ready to spring. If Emma noticed, she said something by tucking her chin into his collarbone and smoothing her hands over the scars on his side and fitting her knees right behind his and her stomach flat against his back. Emma noticed and she asked if he was certain and then she made good use of his certainty.

And then half a year went by and nothing happened despite their regular and sincere attempts and Killian felt like he could breathe easily again, except for the prickle of guilt at the nape of his neck that he felt like scratching whenever he found Emma curled up before the fire and staring somewhere beyond it.

It wasn't that he was glad and it wasn't that he wished for their attempts to amount to nothing. But, when they did, it felt like walking on land again after a turbulent time at sea, when they did, he would sit at the feet of the dying embers and pull her into his lap and tell her that they were alright and maybe this was alright and certainly they could wait and definitely they will remain alright.

And then another two months went by and then another and Emma dug her fingers into his forearms less whenever he sat behind her and wrapped himself around her. There is a certain melancholy about her for a couple of days every month but it doesn't seem to mount, to build every month, it seems like the tide – coming and going with a regularity, inevitable but not drowning.

It takes almost a year for Killian to start feeling it, the way his thoughts yank the reigns a bit to the side, towards a path that he realizes part of him expected to walk eventually, whether he was prepared or not. It doesn't change anything outward – he has been steadfast in his decision to trust Emma from the start, it's just that now – after expectation has been quietly simmering between them without bubbling over for some time, after the girls have reminded him of things he seems better equipped for than he remembers – he is starting to trust himself as well.

Three days after Alice and Robyn depart, he realizes his thoughts have stopped right before that path of _wanting _and have been trumping their hooves in place for some time now.

/

It takes a solid hour for Ruby and Killian's combined forces – Emma sipping her tea on the side and observing their efforts with unmasked glee – to finally prevail over Granny. Eventually, begrudgingly, Mrs Lucas allows Killian to dismiss the whole staff for a week.

The freedom of the empty house is intoxicating and for the first couple of days they behave much like children left to their own devices. They don't eat a single meal on an actual table and make a complete mess of a number of carpets and sheets, they heat pot after pot of hot chocolate and let the cups pile around the sink, they forget the horses need exercise and lie in the garden with no blanket between them and the damp ground, they break a vase full of red flowers neither of them recognizes while Killian chases her through the drawing room, her hair half down and definitely in need of a wash.

Despite Killian's daring ambitions, they don't make love in every room in the house, let alone under every tree in the garden, they just don't worry about pressing their palms against the other's mouths quite as often, they rarely bother dressing fully and on one memorable occasion Emma ventures out of their bedroom in her husband's clothing.

But that's not what makes her feel drunk on Killian for the entire week – it's the fact that she spends an unusually warm day with nothing but a shawl over her dressing gown, molding herself against her husband's side and tucking her feet under his thighs, it's the fact that, towards the end of the week, Killian's brace on his nightstand is covered in a fine layer of dust, it's the fact that they run out of cocoa and, faced with the unthinkable prospect of dressing themselves properly and going to the marker, they start making a horrendous concoction that has too much milk and too much sugar to be called tea anymore, it's the fact that Killian opens one of the drawers of his heavy, ornate desk and takes out a stack of every drawing she has made and left behind since marrying him.

And then there is an afternoon, a golden hour of utter stillness and the scent of bread not baked quite right, a hushed hour in which she can hear the sound of her fingers counting the vertebrae in Killian's spine, a muted hour in which she can see the white indentations that remain for three, four, five seconds after Killian's fingers release her hip, an hour in a very distinct palette of colours against which the black and grey in Killian's hair stands out sharply, the pink of her nails as she slips her hot hands through it again and again, an hour outside of time in which she feels her spine curve to a point after which there should be no coming back and it's only Killian's knees at the small of her back and his stump around her waist that keep her from breaking clean in half, an hour of nothingness in which they only talk against skin and right into each other's throats, an hour of everything in which she thinks she touches every bit of skin that is Killian's.

It's an unremarkable afternoon and an hour the kind of which has ticked away again and again.

But that's the afternoon she thinks about weeks later, when Ruby comes up with a hot water bottle and cloths and a change of clothes that Emma finds herself not needing.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: First, _forgive me_. This is half a year late but life is unpredictable sometimes and the muse - always. This last chapter is the longest of this fic and I sincerely hope it makes up for the long wait. For a moment there, I didn't think I would be able to finish this in a way that satisfied me but I'm actually quite pleased with what you are about to read. I hope you will be too.  
Second, _thank you_. This fic has proven to be my best experience in this fandom. Thank you for all the excitement, for the gifts and for the gifs, for the long reviews and for the "so good" reviews, for the kudos and for the likes, for the messages and for all the little jokes. I never would've written this without you guys. This isn't mine, this is ours. Thank you for the love!

* * *

The silver platter hits the table with a clatter – all empty cups and plates, she didn't know the girl could eat this much even if she forced herself, which Mrs Lucas suspects she has.

"Well?"

"'Well', well, he says. You couldn't have picked one that isn't stubborn as a mule, could you?"

"If we are being precise, Liam—"

"Oh, we're being ever so precise! So precise she won't let her toe graze the carpet."

Killian frowns deeply and Mrs Lucas feels her shoulders slump even before she has decided to give up being vexed with him and his lady wife.

Truth be told, Mrs Lucas was plenty relieved at first. She has seen her fair share of foolish women frequenting dances and even riding while with child. Mrs Jones deciding to remain at home looked like a blessing alright, before it became clear that the girl had decided to order herself on bedrest before one could even properly tell there was a babe growing inside her.

That was almost two weeks ago and it seems to Mrs Lucas that they have tried every trick for luring her outside. All save for the direct one.

"It seems to me that it is her husband who must talk to her."

Killian gives her a look that is part disgruntled old man, part petulant little boy and the way his mouth works tells her he is resisting the urge to argue semantics and point out that he walks to his wife every day. Just not about what needs talking about.

/

He opens their bedroom door a couple of hours after talking to Granny, after letting Roger take him as fast as he was willing to go. He'd decided even before saddling the beast but the acute absence of Buttercup beside him or Emma pressed warm and soft again his back certainly solidified his courage.

The sun is starting to itch down and Emma's fingers look like spun gold as they smudge the pencil lines on the sheet before her. Her ring doesn't seem to reflect the light but rather absorb it into itself and it makes something possessive and very satisfied purr in his chest.

He sits on the edge of the bed and dives his hand under the blanket, searchingly blindly until he finds her ankle and curls his fingers around it – they close perfectly, the tips of his thumb and middle finger touching over the smooth hardness of her malleolus. He studied all the known bones in the human body in a fit of morbidness and cynical humour when he first lost his hand but the memory that comes to mind is one made in this very room, much too late into the night, and saturated with Emma's almost constant giggles and sharp bursts of laughter as he recited all the names of her bones in the most tactile manner possible.

Now he circles the bone under his thumb and waits for her to finish drawing and look at him, not allowing himself to peak at her work, knowing she hates anyone seeing her sketches all the way until she grows either bored or pleased with them and abandons them on a windowsill. Her work was always good but he thinks it has been growing progressively better and he is having more and more difficulty holding his tongue about it until the right time.

Eventually, unhurriedly – he is both exasperated and incredibly pleased in her confidence that he will wait at the foot of the bed as long as it takes to receive her attention – she sets the sheet on the little bureau beside the bed – face down, pencil on top – and lifts her eyes to his. In the afternoon light, her eyes are golden too and this becomes one of those moments that make him very aware of how very beautiful his wife is.

He stands up and inclines his head toward the bath he sent Ruby to prepare before he came up.

"Trust me?"

It is not the layered question it might have been a year ago. It is mostly just that – I have only one hand and I want to lift you in my arms, will you trust me to do so? He doesn't know if that is indeed what she hears, the way her eyelashes flutter, the way her mouth softens, but then she lifts her arms toward him – so innocent and child-like and _trusting_ that Killian feels the space where his heart lies burning.

The flames in the fireplace reflect along the length of the white bathtub. There's something different in the air, something tart and speaking of citruses because Emma doesn't seem to like her old perfumes and soaps these days, because Ruby knows all and is – always, miraculously – prepared for it.

Killian's arms are hard and firm as iron around his wife and yet, his step falters imperceptibly when her fingers first tangle in the ends of his hair. It's hypnotic, euphoric. Her thumb glides over the muscles of his neck, pressing at intervals – curious and bold, as her fingers move ever so lightly through the grey strands. His hair has grown longer than is proper in the last month, he has taken advantage, delight even, in getting completely off the merry-go-round of society.

She is warm in his arms and slightly heavier – almost unnoticeable unless you are looking for that last confirmation the way he is, he stops half a pace from the tub and drops to one knee, lowering her ever so slowly into the water. She ripples all over at the first touch and he hides his grin in her hair.

"Oh, you are something else."

He hums, inhales her before he pulls back to look in those molten eyes.

"All I am is yours, my queen." His voice is the embodiment of reverence and supplication but the look in his eyes must betray his baser thoughts so he keeps them firmly on hers.

Her cheeks flush quickly, the warm bath and the blatant flirtation attacking in tandem, she lifts her shoulders slightly and gathers breath to pay him in kind. But he knows her ever so well, well enough to steal it again, ducking his head in the exact moment when the tops of her breasts peak out of the water and pressing his mouth to the soft skin.

It's tempting beyond belief to touch and tease and enjoy her like this but he did in fact intend to help her with her bath and the ends of her hair are already growing heavier and darker. He rolls his left sleeve and watches her leave wet spots all over as she does for his right. He grabs a comb and shuffles behind her, pressing his body against the cool surface of the tub for relief, to keep his mind somewhat clear and starts working his way down her tresses.

"Emma." He lays a curling strand over her shoulder and runs his knuckles over the long expanse of her throat – up and back to the nape of her neck, gathering another section of hair. "I've pondered— that is… I _believe_… love, I believe everything is going to be well."

The air is still for a moment, the only sound the crackling from the fireplace. Then there's a slight tug as she nods. Confirmation because of decisiveness rather than belief, he thinks.

"What I mean to say is that I want you to stop worrying."

"I'm not worr—"

"You haven't left this room in days."

"My being careful does not mean I am worrying, thank you ever so."

"Emma."

"It does not."

He presses his lips together and continues working the comb's teeth between the strands of her hair. He itches all over to snuff out the tension in the citrus-scented air, to smooth his hand over her shoulder and embrace her and tell her that she is right. Alas, she isn't always. His brother would laugh to death at him but Killian _wants_ his wife to always be right, it makes him feel like he is losing his footing when she isn't.

Emma's sigh is deep, nettled but almost accepting now.

"Perhaps…," her voice is small but she tips her head back on the edge of the tub and he can almost see her eyes. "Perhaps I'm a little scared."

"That makes you a good deal less scared than me, love."

She snorts – mellow and undignified and private and he drops the comb and slips his arm around her, resting his palm and forearm over her sternum and his cheek on her neck, wet hair sliding against skin.

"It's going to be my fault if—" she starts.

"Nonsense. That is nonsense and you know it."

"It is not. You don't know. I feel… It feels like in all the world only I can protect this little thing that needs so much protecting."

"Aye, I don't know. What I do know is that you are the best protector anyone can ask for. And what you seem to forget is that… this time, this world, _our_ world would do everything to protect you both."

She is silent long enough that he picks up the comb again but when he takes a section of hair she hums and turns her face to the side, her lips pressing against the inside of his wrist.

/

She knows Killian means well, what is more, she suspects he might be right. But the thing is that Killian has already done this, he already is a wonderful father, he has already raised a beautiful, healthy and happy daughter. Killian could never muck this up. She just needs to be certain that she won't either.

As with most things, Killian Jones changes her mindset and she has to give him extra credit for not even being present when doing it. It's just that it does get insufferably boring to stay in one's bed all day long, no matter how tall the pile of books by said bed and no matter how many different sunrises she draws. The house is still much too quiet without the girls there and somehow she manages to miss her husband any moment he is not being doting and overbearing. So, this is how Emma finds herself throwing off the thin blanket laid over her legs, wrapping herself in a shawl and tiptoeing out of her room.

"I did not know that I was married to a thief."

Killian's head comes up lightning fast, his neck pops audibly and his eyes widen in surprise and crinkle with joy as he finds her with a hip against his doorway. It takes him a moment and then another but Emma waits patiently for his mouth to quirk up and for him to lean back in his chair and meet her challenge.

"I've been called many a thing, my queen, but this is the first I'm hearing of my being a thief."

"Everybody gets caught eventually, my heart, and you most certainly did not pay for _that_," she says and nods toward the framed drawing hanging above his head.

Truly, it's ostentatious and a little bit ridiculous to have it handing there. The sketch is good enough, if she does say so herself, but it's old and messy and clearly abandoned much sooner than it would have been decent enough to display anywhere, let alone in a such a place of pride. It is far from the best rendition of this particular subject that she has been drawing ever since he told her.

"Oh, this?" Killian leans his head back so he can see the drawing and Emma can see the long expanse of his throat. "Why, Mrs Jones, I found this masterpiece just lying about on my property. I must say I'm rather in love with the style but for the life of me cannot seem to track down the artist."

Emma shakes her head and moves further into the room, Killian pushes away from his desk and turns to face her as she circles his desk. She does so love every surface in this study.

"In love, are you?" she asks coyly even as she straddles his lap shamelessly.

"Hopelessly," her dramatic husband says as both his real and wooden hand find her hips with studied accuracy and he rests his chin just below her belly, pressing a soft, absentminded kiss there that makes it flutter the way her eyelashes do. "Thank you for giving me my island, Emma."

/

Alice and Robyn are back within a week of the three letters Emma and Killian pen, sharing the newest development in their life with their closest friends and family.

"Have you chosen a name for her yet?"

"Why are you so certain it should be a girl?" Emma asks, even though she is quite certain herself and delighted and anxious and impatient and many other feelings that she keeps stored beside her and Killian's bed to unfold and examine only when it's late and cloudy and just the two of them. The name of their child has yet to see the clouds of such a day.

"Oh, it is simply papa's fate to be surrounded by ladies," Alice answers as she winds another layer of wool around Robyn's patiently extended forearms. Everyone but Alice is convinced that she has no idea what she is doing, mostly because she hasn't even decided what it is she wants to make, but she and Robyn have been kneeling before the hearth and untangling Granny's balls of wool long enough that now something simply must be done with it.

"Ladies?" Killian looks up from his papers and pulls his glasses a little down his nose, making a show of carefully surveying his surroundings. "Why, I cannot remember the last time I saw one."

Emma gasps in a way worthy of her husband's own theatrics even as Alice takes hold of one of the balls of wool and throws it like a true markswoman straight at her father's head, dislodging the poor spectacles further, while Robyn agrees mournfully that she herself has forgotten what such a thing as a lady even looks like.

Emma couldn't be happier to have them back.

/

One thing Emma never expected from her older and storm-wrought husband the first time she met him was to ever see the child that he surely must have been, the playfulness and innocence of youth. Emma remembers that assumption wobbling unsteadily the first time she saw Killian sitting on the floor and then a little more every time she watched him enjoy his cocoa a frankly undignified amount. She thinks this is the moment when the last rock of what's left of that assumption topples, as she watches Killian lying on his stomach between her generously spread legs, head tilted to the side and tongue and teeth working over his bottom lip as he measures her breasts with his good hand with all the dedication a physician might apply to his life-saving research.

"Killian, they have not changed."

Killian ignored her for a moment, then looks up with all the disappointment in the world gathered in his blue eyes. She suspects he positions the candles in their bedroom just so to give him the utmost dramatic flair when he himself is positioned just so between her legs.

"It is an outrage and a travesty how little attention you have paid to your own lovely form."

"If I did, _neither_ of us would get anything done, my heart."

Killian's grin is unrepentant, triumphant even.

"Precisely so, love. Thus, I am the expert on matters such as these and can assure you that differences are present, have been noted and must be properly appreciated."

Even as she shakes her head, Emma arches her back a little off the mountain of pillows behind her, pushing her chest toward the warm radiating off of Killian. He obliges her with hand, stump and mouth and difference or not, Emma delights in being properly appreciated.

It is perhaps why the question catches her unawares later, somewhere in that state between the clearest pleasure and the deepest comfort, as she melts against Killian's body and traces her nose along the edges of a long scar on his side – rhythmic and hypnotic and gradually putting herself to sleep.

"Have you given it any thought?"

The hum she lets him have is more than she thought herself capable of giving right now. It makes him chuckle, a hint of smugness in it that would make her roll her eyes if he had not earned it so thoroughly.

"A name. For our lass, according to all of you."

"Oh."

She follows that scar until her nose is buried between Killian's hot skin and their silken sheets. Killian twitches a little and his hand tangles in her hair.

"I have no good ideas," she mumbles somewhere under him and tilts her face so it's now her mouth that brushes the raised skin, her tongue flicking out to taste the uneven texture. Killian groans above her and his hold tightens.

"Perhaps," he swallows and gasps, delightfully out of control now as she digs further, following the routes on his skin and butting her head under him even as her hand slips between his legs. "Perrrhaps you could be… so good… oh, Emma, so good."

"Mhm?"

"So… so good as to share them anyway?"

She takes her sweet time about it and he does not seem to mind terribly, not if the way he twists toward her and ruts against her is any indication. But, eventually, after she has been satisfied with his satisfaction, she comes out from under the tangle of sheets and blankets and Killian and combs the hair out of her eyes.

"I like nothing so well as to share," she says, honest but almost petulant. "Evelyn. It's the only one I like but not _enough_."

It's the first name spoken between them and it doesn't fit quite the way she wants it to. Killian hums and mentions some he has considered and discarded himself.

"Mary Margaret says there is this new fashion to choose something _meaningful_. She and David wanted something brave. Strong."

Killian props his chin on his left forearm and gives her a soft look, the kind that negates the need for her to ask for anything, the kind that says she just has to name it and it shall be. It always makes her feel terribly flustered, overwhelmed and rather powerful too. She wonders if that's how queens feel at first.

"What do you want for her?"

Her lips twitch as his steady conversion, his blind trust in her equally blind belief that they are to have a girl.

"I just wanted her. And you gave her to me."

Killian laughs, it delights her. "Rather the other way around. But after, what do you want after?"

She is still afraid to think too much about after, as if she will ruin it, if she imagines it too much. "I don't… I just hope she is happy. I hope she is healthy and happy to be here." She laughs, it sounds wet. "I hope she loves me."

Killian's eyes widen and he opens his mouth but she rushes ahead, can't stop imagining now and it feels safer to do so here, with him.

"I hope I get to teach her to ride and Alice teaches her to shoot a bow and arrow and you teach her to read and, lord, I hope Ruby can teach her to dance because none of us will do it properly."

She looks at Killian's eyes and can't tell if she loves the colour or the dark lashes or the lines around them more.

"I hope she falls in love. I… I hope…"

Killian's eyes sparkle and the lines grow deeper.

/

Next come Liam and Elsa with all the fanfare and gifts that befits Admiral and Mrs Jones.

"She is not even born yet," Killian grumbles even as he admires the toy horse his brother has deposited in the middle of their drawing room, on top of the table – much to Granny's dismay and more genuine grumbling – like it's the queen's jewels.

"She?"

Killian's face scrunches up and he waves a hand in the air.

"The girls have gotten into my head."

"Then God help you when you get yet another one," Liam grins smugly.

/

"You never asked."

"Hmm?" Emma tears her head away from the target practice going on a few feet away from them. It's not easy. There is something delightful about two young girls in billowing skirts embarrassing a naval admiral and captain and pushing them to the sort of language that Emma is certain neither Killian not Liam have ever permitted themselves to use off a ship before. When she looks at Elsa she has the same look on her face that she first gave her at her welcoming ball. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's quite alright," Elsa turns her head toward the rest of their party and takes a sip of her tea. "I could hardly take my eyes off him for the first three years after we married."

Emma smiles and resists the urge to point out that time hasn't changed all that much for Elsa and she is quite certain it won't for her.

"Why we don't have children. You never asked."

Emma's eyes widen at the non-sequitur and Elsa's matter-of-fact tone.

"I… I didn't want to pry."

She hadn't, she hadn't even asked Killian, too aware of how much she hoped Admiral and Mrs Jones would take their time before they start asking themselves and others the same thing about her. That and she had drawn her conclusion and felt nothing but desire to not bestir those waters.

"I never wanted to," Elsa says in that same tone and Emma blinks at her – once, twice, until Elsa's perfect blue eyes turn to her.

Once, after a shamefully long and indulgent dinner at their estate and a couple of glasses of cognac each, Liam Jones said that he no longer feels the need to go sailing because he has the ocean all to himself every time he looks at his wife. Killian teased him mercilessly until Emma was forced to bring to attention the fact that he has taken, perfected and elevated his brother's talent for dropping into casual conversation the sort of lines that must belong on stage.

Elsa smiles gently at her surprise.

"Outrageous, I know. What sort of a woman doesn't want to raise a child with her husband?"

"No, I…" Emma doesn't know what she would have said, if Elsa hadn't continued, it's hard to imagine not wanting something that you've thought you simply won't be allowed for so long.

"I'm simply a terribly selfish person, Emma."

"That's not true."

Elsa smiles again, much more playful, the kind of smile Emma is used to from her, the kind that tells you you don't know even as little as you think you do.

"It is. But I don't mind. I rather like it. Love it. I love my life and my husband. I never wanted to share it or change it and I've never felt…"

Emma can't help but know exactly how she herself would have finished that thought. "Incomplete?"

Elsa is surprised to find her knowing, pleasantly so.

"No. Never." She looks back at their husbands and the girls and Emma catches the movement of her fingers, playing with her rings. She notices because it looks so out of place in Elsa Jones who is always in perfect repose. "Liam has never tried to convince me. He wanted children, I didn't, so we weren't to have any."

Emma turns to look at Liam Jones who is bent in half, hands on his knees and nose almost brushing Alice's bow as he watches with narrowed eyes how she pulls back her arrow. She has never thought him an unsatisfied man and she doesn't now.

"I just wonder sometimes. Why he never asked again," Elsa says, almost as if to herself.

"Would you change your mind?" Emma asks, equally quiet and utterly unsurprised as Elsa shakes her head. "That's why."

Elsa turns to her and gives her a brand new smile, the kind that tells Emma sometimes Elsa doesn't know everything either and she is glad to be told.

/

Mrs Nolan comes last but she brings Leo and everybody forgets everything else the second he smiles his biggest smile and sticks Killian's thumb in his mouth.

/

"This is ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous."

"Dearest—"

"Granny is in there! Why can't I—"

"Alice, it's… I'm sure it's all overwhelming enough for Emma without the whole household being present."

Robyn withstands her love's glare admirably, if she does say so herself. Oh, Alice is sunshine made flesh and she loves her so much but when she is unhappy she rages like the wind whipping the whole world outside.

"I'm not going to _overwhelm _her. I want to be there! What if…"

Alice's pacing comes to a sudden halt and Robyn furrows her brows and pushes off the wall outside Captain and Mrs Jones's room, taking an instinctive step toward her.

"Alice, she's going to be just fine."

But Alice looks up at her from under her lashes and chews on her lip and Robyn realizes she doesn't want anyone to see, let alone hear, her true fears. Robyn opens her mouth to reassure her again when Captain Jones appears at the top of the stairs and heads down the corridor toward them.

The change in Alice is instantaneous – her shoulders straighten and her eyes open and clear and she puts a little sway into her movements as she reaches out and takes her father's hand.

For his part, Killian looks like he couldn't compose himself even if he tried but he comes to a stop and kisses his daughter's temple and smiles at Robyn.

"I'm sorry you have to wait outside but Doctor Hopper said—"

"It's alright, papa," Alice cuts him off and some of that sunshine that has kept Robyn warm even during the bitterest winter spills into the windowless corridor. "You go ahead and calls us in when she is here."

Killian kisses her one more time and squeezes Robyn's shoulder as he walks into the room. As soon as the door is closed behind him, Alice flushes and averts her eyes.

"Yes, I know I was _just_ complaining about being made to wait but it's not like he can—"

Robyn's hand finds the back of her neck and her lips cut off the flow of her self-conscious explanation.

"I love you, Miss Jones."

/

The youngest Miss Jones comes into the world in a tremendously dramatic fashion – a stormy night of swirling greys and dark blue, thunder and lightning and a wind that screams and screams in tandem with Emma. It's a fact that will be cited over and over again in the years to come, mostly by Granny but certainly by her parents as well when weary enough and certainly by her sister and Ruby with all the pride in the world.

Days later, when Killian is close to throttling the poor man because Emma still can't get out of bed on her own, Doctor Hopper will tell him that it was a perfectly normal birth – if a bit longer and a fair bit louder.

Hours later, when Alice rushes into the room and demands a proper introduction, Killian will look down at the baby he has only let go of for minutes at a time so Granny can clean her up and Emma can hold her close and introduce Hope Evelyn Jones and it fits just the way Emma wanted it to. They haven't talked about a middle name and the way Killian looks at Emma as if he knows she will be pleased makes her as happy as hearing him say it. As happy as Alice's little sigh of pure love and the way she leans over and presses a kiss to Emma's temple and tells her that she loves her and makes her cry all over again.

Seconds later, when Doctor Hopper tries to hand their baby to Granny to clean her up, Killian will intercept him and take his daughter in his arms with a movement that guarantees nobody but Emma will ever know he worried about how he will hold her only days ago. It's one of these moments in life that you know you will never be able to recall perfectly. It would be too much, to hold all that emotion inside you for the rest of time. So Emma doesn't even try, she doesn't do anything but watch and bask in the love on her husband's face and the love that overfills every little place inside her when he places their daughter in her arms – pink and squealing and so so warm.

/

The strangest thing is how calm she is in the weeks after, when she can do little more than feed her baby and herself. Doctor Hopper has sworn on everything Killian could think to make him swear on that she shall recover fully and Emma believes him. She believes him because she never once feels cold.

/

"Are you certain, love?"

"She is a bitter old woman, Killian, not an infamous brigand."

Killian gives her a look that seems to imply that he doesn't feel like the gulf between the two is wide enough.

"I'm merely suggesting you reply that her visit will be welcome at a later date," he says but the inflection on the word "welcome" somehow manages to turn it into its exact opposite. Emma smiles at him and lets her hand run through his hair long enough that Killian sighs in obvious defeat and drops his forehead against her shoulder. "I do not see why we shouldn't have her wait until you have fully recovered—"

"Because I do not want this visit hanging over my head. I'd much rather have it done and over with. And what is more," she continues quickly when she feels Killian's lips part against her skin to most likely explain how it needn't be done at all. "I do not care to perform for Regina's pleasure."

Killian is silent for a moment and she lets the silence prove her sincerity. Emma was surprised herself when she received Regina's card and realized she did want to see her grandmother one more time. She wants to close that door very firmly, lock it and abandon the key somewhere without even bothering to throw it away. What is more, she feels a queer thrill at the thought of welcoming her now, just like this, still recovering and as far from the perfectly staged lady as she can be without outright impropriety.

"Have it your way, my queen," Killian sighs eventually. "But the second you want her out—"

"I shall show her out myself," she bends her head and waits for him to look up so she can press her lips against his. "Thank you for trusting me."

"Always," he hums and scatters a few kisses over her cheeks and then down her throat – the light, soft kind that he has been giving her for weeks, the kind that she loves with her very soul but also make her skin tingle with an impatient desire for the future.

"I would like you to take the girls away, however. I don't want her around them."

Killian breathes out against her collarbone and swipes his thumb over the sharp raise of it before he glances up. "And I do not want to leave you alone."

Emma huffs a little but decides she could give him that, knows she would like to have him close, just in case, just in case Regina's presence affects her more than she thinks it will have the power to.

"Alright. You can have Hope, Robyn can take Alice out. Just for an hour. Just—I don't want her near my daughters."

His thumb stops, barely pressing into her skin, and Killian looks up at her. Fortunately, by now, Emma has learnt how to meet the steady and deep – bottomless, utterly without end, without corner or condition or caveat – press of Killian's love. She has become something of an expert at how to welcome it, fold it and hold it and keep it. It feels indulgent and almost blasphemous every time, especially when there is so much happiness and gratitude mixed in with it like now. She takes it gladly.

/

Mrs Lucas bustles up the stairs at a speed that she thought she'd left behind in her years of running after little Miss Alice. She supposes it's a good thing to check and find that she is still capable of it and the thought of the new miss running through the house before long manages to break a smile on her face even in her current foul mood. But that would be then, this is now and there is nothing but fury propelling Mrs Lucas toward the master bedroom.

When she storms in, Emma looks up at her as if it's any other day. She is in bed but on top of the covers, a light blanket thrown over her legs and a shawl over her shoulders, her hair is messy, braided only at the very end, the way she does it when she's had her hands empty for a moment too long. Mrs Lucas feels a rush of fondness coming up her throat so violently she think she is going to belch. It steels her resolve.

"Now, Captain's saying you know all about this and, what is more, it's you who talked him into allowing it. But I've spent too long around you two and watched you consume too much sugar right before bed to mind too much about what either of you says first time around. So, you tell me now and I'll take that old wretch by whatever's left of her hair and drag her out the door myself."

Emma's eyes are wide for a second and Mrs Lucas has the strange feeling that now this girl truly knows her. Then the skin around her eyes crinkles and she shakes her head and extends a hand toward her.

Mrs Lucas huffs and keeps away, hands on her hips and her mouth set in a steel line for all of five seconds because this damn house has made her soft as an overkneeded ball of dough. She steps forward and takes Emma's small hand and bends forward to press her closer against her bosom because no matter how much Emma's appetite has grown, her hand is still a fragile little thing in Mrs Lucas's wrinkled palm.

"Let her up," the silly girl says. "And make that godawful tea you keep at the very back for business meetings Killian wants over as quickly as possible."

/

After all the fuss, Regina's presence when she enters the room is rather anti-climatic. Emma hadn't even considered how the couple of years in which they hadn't seen each other might have changed her grandmother, and even if she had, she doubts she would've imagined this.

Regina's hair is almost entirely grey now and the rigid and undoubtedly very carefully chosen coiffure cannot quite hide how thin it is in places. Her face is as cold and severe as always and there aren't that many more wrinkles to tell of the passing of time but it's her hands that shock Emma. If Regina were truly the evil witch everybody says she is, Emma would think she had cast a spell to gather all of her age in her hands – wrinkled and spotted and claw-like as they clutch her cane. The cane is new, as well, and obviously terribly expensive, black and shiny and looking like a rod for all that is bitter in the world. Emma is glad Regina didn't have it when she was living under her roof.

"Most women would be out of bed and taking care of their child and household by now."

Regina's voice has always been cold but now it sounds like it has turned to icicles in her throat and pains her slightly as she talks. Her opening is the first thing that slots right into place in Emma's expectations and almost makes her smile sardonically.

"You look well, Regina." She allows herself this one jab, she does not care to play a game of veiled insults with Regina but this one slips out before she can stop it and, if the look in Regina's eyes is any indication, it lands right on target. Emma gestures toward the armchair set beside a small table a little way from their bed, not too close.

Regina liked to stand tall and rigid over Emma for most of their life but it seems to cost her too much effort now. Her back stays as straight as possible, her hands spider like and just as restless. This is also new and Emma does not care to observe for too long.

"The child?"

"With her father," Emma says with a finality that should alert Regina to the likelihood of seeing Hope with her own eyes.

"Your servants could certainly improve on their manners," she says next and this time Emma does let the corner of her mouth quirk up. "Though I suppose I shouldn't expect you to run a tight household from your bedchambers."

"Captain Jones and I find them perfectly suited for us."

She can see the reply in Regina's cold and sharp eyes but that is when Granny comes in to bring the tea and display her improvable manners. The look Regina gives her assures Emma that they will be coming back to her household's shortcomings but she turns in a different direction when the door closes behind the cook.

"Yes, I suppose your husband must be less than concerned with propriety to be taking care of his babe, while his wife lazes around in bed weeks after it is all done."

Emma has the vague notion that such a comment from Regina should incite things in her but all it does is make her crave the image of Killian with their daughter in his arms, which she is sure to be treated to as soon as Regina leaves.

"Frankly, Emma, I believe you should thank me. I don't know who else would've put up with you."

She hears the tinge of annoyance, almost desperation, in Regina's voice and realizes her grandmother is now grasping, scrambling for whatever she came here for. Emma is not certain what it is exactly that she is withholding but she knows full well what it is that Regina doesn't want to hear.

Well, that's too bad, isn't it? Because Regina's not wrong and for this one thing Emma doesn't mind admitting it. Emma's smile is serene and she would think herself benevolent but for the twinkle in her eye that makes Regina's spider-fingers spasm.

"Thank you, Regina."

/

She wakes up next to the inferno that is Killian even barefoot and on top of the covers. His left sleeve is rolled up to his elbow, the right one just pushed up, his wedding ring catching the sunlight as he holds his papers in front of him, his glasses hanging precariously on his nose.

Emma pulls herself up and huffs at the way the pages drop to the bed and his hand immediately settles on her arm.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine. Better," she says pointedly. She is not perfect but she has been better every day, yet every day he fusses just as much as the one before. "Where's Hope?"

He kisses her sweetly and she pushes his glasses up before they fall on her face, then takes his hand off her arm so she can roll up his right sleeve properly.

"Ruby took her about an hour ago but I'm sure Mrs Lucas has gotten her hands on her by now."

Emma feels the stretch in her smile at that. When Granny holds their daughter in her arms you can't tell she can ever be anything but smooth edges and soft places and softer lullabies.

"You should have some breakfast, let me—"

"Can I have it outside?"

Killian's already on the edge of the bed but he turns back at that – his face a mix of anxious hope and consternation.

"Emma, I don't think you should be walki—"

"That's what I have a strong, gallant husband for," she says and makes sure her smile is enticing and not just plain spoiled as she throws off the blankets and extends her arms in a gesture he has never once been able to refuse.

Killian developed an amazing fascination with carrying her around during her pregnancy, even when there was no need and long after it was probably advisable for his back, the way his face positively melts tells her that their daughter's birth hasn't changed anything in that respect.

"That you do, my queen."

He helps her change into something less prone to blow in the wind than her nightgown and shrugs on his coat directly over his shirt, which Emma decides is definitely a look they should revisit when she can appreciate it properly, and takes her into his arms.

There is nothing quite like being carried in Killian's arms. It's not just how safe she is, it's how precious it makes her feel. The thought never fails to make her blush and she promptly buries that blush in Killian's neck.

After months of this, they navigate doors and corridors and stairs with barely a thoughts and she is being lower on the swing in the garden before anyone has probably even noticed they're outside. Killian disappears through the back door of the kitchen, much to her displeasure, because he claims food is more beneficial to her than being able to lie in his lap. Emma disagrees but she is more than willing to have both.

They stay out long enough for her to track the movement of the sun, long enough for Granny to find them and roll her eyes at them in a way that Emma knows means she likes what she sees.

"The little miss is hungry," she says with all the reluctance of someone who would give anything to not have to let go of the baby in her arms.

Emma grins as Killian wraps his arm around the entirety of her waist and helps her to sit up and lean against him. Confined to bed as she has been, she is more than aware of the tug of war in the house and how anyone who manages to get Hope in their arms will keep her there until they have no other choice. She has seen Ruby folding the bedsheets in their room one-handed and Killian somehow juggling baby, ledger, pen and inkwell with only two spillages as a result.

So, Emma feels rather smug in her privilege. They can hoard her baby all they want, eventually they all have to hand her over to be fed, and as Granny settles Hope in her arms and Emma feels the warm weight and the sweet smell of her, she really can't begrudge them the hoarding.

However, she can and does begrudge Killian the speed with which he steals their daughter's attention with barely a finger pressed to her pink little nose.

"Killian, my breasts are bared to the whole world," she huffs, even though there is no one else around.

"I know," she doesn't even need to see the grin on his face. "I'm paying rapt attention, love."

"You are distracting her." She tries to be stern but it is so very difficult when she is practically molded to his side and he is making Hope smile her big toothless smile and making the most embarrassingly endearing sounds next to her ear.

"Am I, princess? Am I distracting you? Are you not giving mummy's luscious breasts the attention they deserve?"

"Killian!" And she is scandalized and indignant, she really is, but she is also laughing so loud her sides ache a little.

/

Killian combs Emma's hair back and watches his daughter's blissful face as she feeds. His hand stays, stroking and scratching lightly, running his long fingers carefully through the tangled strands even though no pin has come anywhere near her hair in weeks, maybe months, and he raises his left forearm to Hope's back, the whisper-soft hairs at the back of her neck brushing against the hard skin at the end of his wrist. He can't feel that but he feels the way Emma drops her head back, closing her eyes and entrusting them both entirely to his arms and he presses his smile against the crown of her head.

/

Mary Margaret declares herself utterly enamored the second Hope spits on her shoulder. It takes another hour, during which Mrs Nolan wastes no time in adopting the habits of the household and refuses to let anyone else hold the happily gurgling baby in her arms, for her to come up with the idea that nothing will be better than a match between Leo Nolan and Hope Evelyn Jones.

Emma watches Killian and Mary Margaret haggle over the advantages and disadvantages of this only slightly premature plan and cannot help but wonder if Killian is so scandalized because "she was literally _just_ born" or because he didn't think of the match himself.

/

Emma is just pouring out the cocoa when she hears the door open behind her. She glances over her shoulder, surprised at the sight of Robyn – not at seeing her there but rather at the rumpled state of her, the sweet, almost child-like way she is rubbing her eyes and the braid that's keeping less strands in place than letting them fly around. Alice and Emma and even Killian, but never Robyn – she cannot remember ever seeing Robyn on the verge of sleep.

"I could hear Granny grumbling all the way down the hall," the young woman teases and Emma just rolls her eyes.

"Don't worry. Killian and I have decided that we shall be introducing Hope to hot cocoa as soon as we can. Just wait and see how quickly Granny decides sugar before bed is the most precious idea in the world." She offers Robyn a cup but the girl just shakes her head – she doesn't have Alice or Killian's sweet tooth and she does look like she is just about to lie down and go to sleep on the kitchen floor. She also looks very, very amused and a little impressed.

"You guys are ruthless."

"Are the rest still awake?"

"Not for the last hour," Robyn says and Emma laughs and picks up her tray.

"Are you coming?" She asks at the door but Robyn shakes her head and yawns, her impeccable timing making Emma laugh again as she heads into the corridor. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight, Emma. Please direct her upstairs when she wakes."

Emma smiles as she nears Killian's study and pushes the door slowly, in no rush to wake Alice or anyone else just yet.

She is less used to seeing them here, in this smaller, darker room that is more Killian than anyone else. That must be why her breath backs up into her throat and the mugs rattle on her tray as she looks at Killian behind his desk. His chair is pushed back, almost all the way to the window, his hair is very dark and the silver streaks in it seem to catch all the moonlight outside, his spectacles reflect the fire at the other end of the room, his left forearm is bare and wrapped securely around one dozing daughter while the smaller one is sleeping soundly in his right elbow, pressed close to his rest. Alice must have been holding the book he was reading but it's now lying face down in her lap, precariously close to toppling to the ground.

It's a lot for one chair and Killian looks like he has never been more comfortable in his life. When he dips his chin and looks at her over the tops of his glasses Emma feels his contentment travel down her own spine. She sets the tray on the desk and is just wondering if she can lay down on the settee and go to sleep just staring at them, when Alice grumbles and snorts sharply and jerks a little, book finally falling to the floor. Emma bends to pick it up and snorts, giving her husband a pointed look.

"Aren't pirate stories a bit on the nose for a naval captain?"

"A good pirate story cannot be resisted," Killian and Alice say at the same time and Emma sits on the floor with the book because… well, she is a little overwhelmed with how much she loves them is all.

Alice laughs sleepily, stretches and kisses her father's cheek, then promptly steals the baby in his arms. She ignores Killian's grumbling completely but stops by Emma to allow her a kiss goodnight.

"We'll be up in a moment."

"No, you won't." Alice grins before losing interest in them completely and bending her head over Hope as she whisks her away, telling her all about how their parents eat too much sugar and go to bed too late.

Emma shakes her head and looks at Killian.

"We need to be careful or—" The words die in her throat as she is confronted with the very incriminating scene of Killian with his eyes closed in bliss and his nose buried in one of the mugs she brought. It would be easier to get the sun back in the sky than to stop her gentle laughter.

Killian looks at her and pushes his bottom lip forward, a trace of chocolate smeared on the inside of it.

"What? I have been left cold and bereft."

"Oh?" Emma raised her eyebrows and takes her laughter down to a simmering smile as she gets to her feet and sways toward him. "Do you need me to warm you?"

If there was ever a double entendre, this should be it and yet. She settles against him with her legs swung over the arm of his chair and her head nestled perfectly innocently in the crook of his neck, feeling the spaces where the girls were and where the cold must have rushed in upon their departure. It gives her more pleasure than straddling his thighs would have – to warm him. So, Emma gratefully takes the second mug Killian offers her and relaxes completely, feeling the lift and fall of her husband's every breath against her.

"Emma?"

"Hmm?"

She watches him place his mug on the desk and his hand settles on her knee, drawing little circles over it with his ring finger.

"Do you want to get married again?" he asks and continues on when she doesn't immediately answer. "We can do it properly, invite Mr and Mrs Nolan and Nemo and Belle, the girls will be there and— or it can be just them. Just them and us, in the garden again or anywhere you like. Somewhere by the sea perhaps or—"

She has been surveying his study – the book still on the ground, the baby blanket Granny made for Hope on the settee and the ribbon Alice must have left on the mantle, the island drawing hanging over their heads, the mugs of cocoa on his desk – and now she twists around to kiss him and goes on kissing him and kissing him.

She can hardly remember the last time they kissed like this – long but chase, with nowhere else to go, nothing more to do. It reminds her of the first time she kissed him, she wonders if it reminds him of that night too because his lips keep twitching under hers.

"Do you always smile so much when you kiss a woman, captain?"

He pulls half a breath away from her and keeps smiling.

"It would appear I do."

"I don't want another wedding, my heart."

"No?"

She watches his face carefully but he doesn't look disappointed, he doesn't look like he is missing a single thing in the world. She remembers coming into this room minutes ago and knows it's because he isn't. She shakes her head.

"No. I never wanted to marry you," she lets her own lips tick up and takes his hand in hers, their rings clicking together as she leans forward again so her lips brush his as she speaks. "I just wanted to be your wife."

* * *

If you really enjoyed this monster of a fic, I have one of those Ko-fi things ineffablecolors. I will also be crying over having finally completed it for the next week so come join me whenever.


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